


your halo's full of fire

by clarystea



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: AU, F/F, High School AU, M/M, Prep School AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-06-07 11:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6802774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarystea/pseuds/clarystea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>Caedite eos. Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius.</p>
  <p>-</p>
  <p>Clary wasn't sure what to expect from an all girls Catholic school, but it certainly wasn't this.</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> this fic, similar to all my fics, was written on impulse so i'm sorry for whatever this is
> 
> i just wanted to write a fic that included the holy trinity: clizzy, saphael and malec
> 
> this fic focuses on clizzy mostly though

It’s Clary’s first day at Magdalene Academy for girls and she’s _fucking terrified._

They’d moved – Luke and her – after the disappearance of Clary’s mother. Packed up everything they owned and moved into the comfy, suburban land of California, all blazing sun and swaying palm trees hanging over beach boulevards. It was littered with pretty faces, penny boards, smirking hipsters, all things that would be laughed at where Clary came from. Luke quit the police force, opened his own bookstore by the beach, it boasted vintage books, surfing magazines and a surprising array of romance novels. Clary would read them at the café next door to his shop, at an outside table that overlooked the infinite roll of blue waves.

But summer ended.

Clary surveys herself in the mirror, quickly adjusts her ponytail, pulling a few ginger strands loose to frame her face. She runs her hands down her new uniform; red blazer with gold embroidering, the school logo, a cross surrounded by the sun, and a red tartan skirt that falls just above the knee. Her blouse is white and complete with a red ribbon that ties around the collar. She’s wearing red ankle socks and sensible black brogues. Under the school logo, in golden Latin, it reads “Caedite eos. Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius.” Clary wonders if God would recognise her as His own. She concludes that He probably wouldn’t as she grabs her Italian leather satchel from her desk and heads out her bedroom door.

The house Luke and her share is modern – well-lit and minimalist with windows that drop from the roof to the ground, showing off the beach – but it doesn’t quite feel like home. It isn’t Brooklyn by any means, no traffic or skyscrapers but it’s nice, calm. Maybe that’s what Clary needs.

“How’re you feeling?” Luke asks her as she appears in the kitchen. He’s nervous. He’s felt slightly closed off from Clary since the disappearance of her mother. They haven’t talked about it, not openly, preferring to keep their feelings to themselves, but it’s obvious. They both miss her.

Clary grabs an apple from an abstract fruit bowl that sits on a polished, white countertop. “I’m fine, Luke,” she smiles, takes a bite from the apple. “I should be going though, I don’t want to be late on my first day.”

“You’re right,” he agrees, fidgeting with a ballpoint pen, turning it over in his hand. “Being late on the first day would be a horrible way to start the year,” he chuckles and Clary smiles but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Luke notices. “And, I’ll be at the bookstore if you need me at any point in the day,” Luke informs her, worry seeping into his usually well-guarded expression.

“I’ll remember,” Clary tells him gratefully. “And, hey! Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. I’ve got this.” Luke nods, reassured before standing quickly from his chair by the counter and pulling her into a hug.

“You have my number, just in case, okay?”

“It’s on speed dial,” Clary informs him, breaking the hug. “I will not hesitate to call my favourite cop.” She jokes and he relaxes, smiles down at her, bursting with pride at Jocelyn’s daughter.

“Okay, good! And we’re getting takeout tonight to celebrate your first day,” Luke says, sitting back down.

“I want pizza,” she tells him before waving him goodbye and disappearing through the front door, apple in hand, to the scorching sun.

Clary loves her car, a vintage red convertible that Luke got for her when they moved out here. “You’ll actually be able to drive out here,” he'd laughed. Driving in New York was impossible, and Clary never imagined she was missing much. But the first lesson, wind flowing through hair as she sped through the city was a high for her. She’d drive for hours, through the desert, Lana Del Rey blasting from the car and disappearing around her. This drive was different though, this drive had a destination. Magdalene Academy for girls. A catholic school for girls of exceptional talent. Clary had been accepted on a partial scholarship due to her artistic ability and she was determined to make the most of the situation.

Clary pulls up to Magdalene Academy just before half eight. Although school isn’t set to start for another half an hour, it’s already busy. Clary watches as cliques of girls wearing red blazers, form into huddles by benches outside the school, their heads bowed in conversation. A nineteenth century building of faded red bricks stands in front of Clary. The carpark was full of expensive cars and the girls walk with a rare sort of confidence that only develops through years of wealth.

She tries to keep her breathing steady and her posture firm as she walks through the red sea of Magdalene girls to the front doors of the building. Dark brown wood, gold detailing. The doors don’t quite reach the top of the wall and on the red bricks above the doors, a cross is nailed. The girls turn, watch in silence, as the doors swing open and Clary is ushered inside. Just before the doors fall completely shut, the girls burst into chatter.

“You’ll have to forgive them,” the headmistress tells Clary, noticing her uneasy expression. “They’ve been together since the age of eleven and we’ve never had a new student.” _Fucking great,_ she thinks. It dawns on Clary instantly that there is no way she’s going to ever fit in here. Clary wasn’t used to being around so many girls at once, she wasn’t a try hard special snowflake or anything, it’s just that Clary’s best friend was a boy and she never really spent time with any other girls.

The headmistress, Professor Defoe as she introduced herself, led Clary past reception and into her office. A lushly decorated space – walls lined with brimming bookcases, a Persian rug hiding most of the dark wood floor, paintings hanging uniformly on the only free wall behind her desk – greets Clary. A white Persian cat sits upright on a stack of history books upon the professor’s desk. An empty china cup was also placed on the desk, along with stacks of paper and scattered Mont Blanc pens.

She gestures for Clary to sit down before making her way over to her desk, sitting down in the faded burgundy, leather armchair. “Sorry for the mess,” she announces, quickly gathering the pens into an empty gold pot and moving all the paperwork into one stack at the side of her desk. She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a key and moves to unlock a drawer behind her desk. It slams, clicks shut and she pockets the key before producing a file, the outside red and decorated with the school logo and quote.

“Clarissa Fairchild, yes?” The headmistress questions. Clary nods. “Lovely name,” she adds and begins flipping through the file. It’s for show, Clary notices. The edges of the paper are beginning to wear, this file has been flicked through numerous times before, probably memorised.  “You know why you’re here with us at Magdalene, don’t you?”

Clary nods again. “Artistic ability,” she says. Defoe closes the file, looks up at Clary and beams. The file disappears back into the drawer.

“Here, at Magdalene Academy for girls, we pride girls with exceptional talent and you, Clarissa, have a gift. You have been enrolled into the fine arts classes here along with English, math, history, French and your preferred science, botany. And of course, our compulsory classes on religion and you will be expected to be here every morning at ten to nine for the church service before classes begin promptly at nine.” Clary nods, trying to absorb all the information that is being thrown at her.

“Oh,” the headmistress remembers suddenly, “You’ll also need to pick a sport, we offer lacrosse, tennis and fencing.” Clary sighs, she hates physical activity. “Ah, not a big fan of sport? I’ll put you down for fencing then, it requires the least amount of strain. I’ll get Isabelle to train you up in no time, don’t worry!”

“Isabelle?” Clary asks, wondering if she should know who this girl is, the way the headmistress throws her name around so casually.

“Isabelle Lightwood,” the professor begins. “Is the head girl, she’s also the leader of the fencing club. Lydia Branwell is in charge of the tennis club and Camille Belcourt is the leader of the lacrosse team.” Clary mentally notes these names down. “Camille is also the student guidance councillor, so if you have any concerns, she’s your girl.”

“Thank you,” Clary tells her. “For all your help.” The professor smiles.

“Any time, Clarissa.” She reaches into the stack of paperwork and pulls out a timetable, a map and bible bound in red leather with the school logo and beneath it, Clary’s initials. Clary is just putting the bible in her bag when there’s a knock at the door. “Come in,” the professor raises her voice and the door creaks open to reveal a tanned girl, who towers over Clary. She is dressed in the uniform too, except her blouse isn’t buttoned to the top and her red tartan skirt seems to be a bit higher than regulation. She wears knee high black socks with red ribbons on the sides, and her shoes have a slight heel. It’s total abuse of the school uniform. Clary’s eyes glance back up from the girls rule breaking heels to notice the gold badge pinned to blazer which reads “Head Girl”. This is Isabelle Lightwood.

“Ah, Isabelle,” the headmistress greets her.

“Headmistress,” Isabelle nods her head in respect and shuts the door behind her, stepping into the room.

“You’re aware of our new Magdalene girl, I’m sure? She’s due to join your fencing club,” the headmistress gestures towards Clary and Isabelle turns, meeting Clary's gaze and letting her eyes survey the new girl. She smiles and reaches her hand towards Clary, she takes it and shakes.

“Isabelle Lightwood,” she tells Clary, pronouncing each syllable with exaggerated importance. Names hold weight.

“Clary Fairchild,” Clary introduces herself, hoping she doesn't sound as nervous as she feels.

“Well, Clary, I’m here to escort you on a tour of our very own Magdalene Academy,” she tells Clary, warmth filling her brown eyes, they burn like the sun. Beautiful, but dangerous if one holds their gaze for too long. You could go blind looking at sun and the same was true for this girl. “Well then, headmistress, we’ll be off.” The headmistress nods at Isabelle as Clary rises from her chair and follows Isabelle from the office, tightly gripping her schedule and map in one hand.

She links her arm around Clary's free arm when they reach the corridor. “Thank goodness for you, Clary,” she tells her as they walk up the corridor. “You got me out of morning church service, and for that, I am eternally grateful.”


	2. II

Isabelle is everything Clary wants to be. She’s all enchanting white smiles, glowing skin, dark brown eyes that seem to burn with life and a shock of dark waves that bounce against her back as she walks _. It’s unfair_ , Clary thinks, _that God made someone so beautiful_.

“You can call me Izzy if you want,” Isabelle tells her, her arm still interlocking with Clary’s, as they walk from the office of the headmistress. “Not everybody gets to call me that, but I like you.” She smiles, turning the corner into another identical corridor, leading Clary with her.  

Clary nods her head in response, feeling giddy with excitement over the idea that Isabelle likes her. She understands that Isabelle is just trying to be nice and make her feel comfortable but she pushes that thought down.

 “It’s really beautiful here,” Clary notes after a moment of silence between the two. She’s not lying – the school _is_ gorgeous. The corridors are exposed red brick and lined on either side with antique lights that cast the windowless hallways with flickering light. Artwork adorns the walls – everything from stern portraits and beautiful landscapes to colourful abstract pieces – and the floor is littered with marble busts that stand on aged wooden stands and tall, glass trophy cases boasting an array of sporting trophies.

“It is,” she tells Clary with a glint in her eye. “And mostly empty. It used to be a boarding school too, so there’s a whole floor of empty rooms.”

“That’s a shame that they’re going unused,”

Isabelle raises an eyebrow.

 “No one said they weren’t getting used,” she smirks at Clary who instantly feels heat rising in her cheeks. Isabelle notices. “Anyway, this is the science corridor. Biology is down there, and chemistry and physics is down there.” Isabelle points out the doors as they walk past.

“I take botany,” Clary tells her. “Where is that?”

“Oh, that’s in the courtyard in the greenhouse,” Isabelle tells her. “You can’t miss it, huge glass building.” Clary giggles at Isabelle’s comment and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Clary finds it hard to keep her eyes from straying to Isabelle, her long legs stride through the corridor confidently, heels clicking as she walks.

“Do you think I’ll fit in here?” Clary asks hesitantly. “It’s just because, well, you all seem pretty close and I’m just the new kid.” Isabelle stops suddenly and turns to face Clary, moving her hands to rest on the shorter girl’s arms.

“At Magdalene, we’re all family. All of us.” Isabelle reassures her. “We will all do our best to make you feel comfortable here Clary, especially me.”

Clary bites her lip.

“Why especially you?”

“Because I’m the head girl, silly! It’s my job to make you feel safe here. Plus, you’re in my fencing club and no one so much as looks at anyone in my club the wrong way.”

Isabelle shows Clary the whole school and courtyard and even cracks open the door to the church so they can look in on the service taking place. “Very boring stuff,” Isabelle tells her. “All about how we’re dirty sinners.”

Isabelle leaves Clary outside her English class with a small hug and invitation to sit with at lunch. Her English class is small, it’s only her and two other girls. They all take the assigned seats displayed on their maps and await the teacher. The two girls sitting beside Clary turn and begin speaking in hushed whispers only broken by sharp inhales of breath followed by high pitched giggles. Clary knows it’s unlikely that they’re talking about her, but it still irks at her, twisting her insides and making her feel sick. She wishes Isabelle was here – she is the closest thing Clary has to a friend. Even if they weren’t friends, she would at least talk to her and at the very least introduce her to the other two.

“Hey, you’re new, right?” One of the girls asks, flicking her long blonde braid behind her back and breaking Clary’s train of thought. She has creamy, unblemished white skin and pretty blue eyes lined with grey kohl and mascara.

“Yeah,” Clary tells her, fingers nervously tapping against her desk. “I’m Clary Fray.”

“Oh, it’s lovely to meet you,” the blonde smiles. “I’m Lydia and this is Maureen.” Lydia points to the girl next to her whose wide smile reaches from her plump lips to her shining, hazel eyes. Maureen offers her hand to Clary for her to shake and she takes it gladly.

“So, small class, huh?” Clary questions, gesturing to the three of them in the empty classroom. “Is it not popular?”

“Not really,” Maureen answers. “This isn’t necessarily needed to get into university and so, only hard core English fans take it.”

“Are you in any other advanced classes?” Lydia asks bluntly, examining her perfectly manicured nails. Clary has met girls like Lydia before, they’re the type of girls that could easily walk over you in six inch _Christian Louboutin’s_ and smile when they do it. They _demand_ respect.

“Yeah, I’m taking advanced art class,” Clary says. “Is that class small as well?”

“Even smaller than this one,” Maureen informs her. “I think it’s just you and Camille.” At this, Lydia exhales loudly and rolls her eyes.

“Oh, do you not like her?” Clary asks innocently, reaching into her bag to retrieve her notebook and pencil case.

“She’s just, well, I don’t know – there’s just something about her. She’s such a predatory drunk, sweet baby Jesus, that girl is not the same when she drinks,” Lydia explains to her. “We had this one party right, and the guys from the local all-boys school were there – that school is just across the road by the way - and she got like totally shitfaced. Anyway, point is, she was like all over this guy – Raphael I think? And so, like, we had to totally intervene and save the poor guy.”

Clary blinks twice. Inhales then exhales. “You guys have parties? You drink?” She asks. “Isn’t that illegal? Plus is drinking underage really the best way to serve God?” Clary realises she sounds lame, but she’s always tried to follow her religion as faithfully as she was able to.

“Aw, you’re so cute,” Maureen tells her, as Lydia bursts into giggles. “We can still drink and worship God.”

“Besides,” Lydia adds. “Jesus turned water into wine, if anyone is down for a drink, it’s him.”

Clary is about to reply but is cut off when the teacher walks in and the girls fall into silence and start their work.

Isabelle is waiting for her outside when class finishes. She’s leaning against the wall, arms folded across her chest. Lydia and Maureen follow Clary out the class and Lydia scowls when she sees Isabelle who meets Lydia’s gaze and raises a perfectly arched eyebrow.

“Isabelle,” Lydia greets bluntly, glancing at her up and down. Isabelle smirks.

“Oh, Lydia,” Isabelle greets her. “What would my day be without seeing your pretty face?” This causes Lydia to stalk off, Maureen in tow.

Isabelle links her arm with Clary’s.

“How’s my favourite redhead?” She asks, “And how was your double period?”

“ _I’m_ fine, _it_ was fine,” Clary rushes. “What’s up with you and Lydia though?”

The question causes Isabelle to sigh loudly.

“She’s just competitive you know – she didn’t like that I got head girl. But I admire her honestly, she can just be a bit coarse is all,” Isabelle says. “It’s either that or, I think she totally has a crush on me.” Clary giggles, resulting in a wide grin from Isabelle.

“I don’t know, she just seems a bit mean, like, she was talking about Camille earlier,” Clary begins. “She was talking about her at this party and this guy – Raphael? I think?”

“In Lydia’s defence, what Camille did was totally weird and not okay.” Clary nods.

“I guess you’re right.”

“Anyway, we’ve got French, so move it,” Isabelle laughs, steering her in the direction of the modern languages corridor.

Isabelle leads Clary to the back of the French class – a windowless room with melted wax candles spread across all the surfaces – and directs her to one of the desks at the back. “Why does this place feel like a medieval castle, like where are the windows?” Clary laughs.

“Magdalene girls don’t like the sun,” Isabelle smiles. “Drains our witchy powers.”

She takes the seat closest to the wall and gestures for Clary to sit beside her.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I usually sit alone. Until today.”

Clary takes the seat next to her and to her surprise, as soon as she sits down on the rickety, old chair, Isabelle flings her legs over Clary’s lap. Then she reaches into her black, Italian leather backpack and removes a notebook, French textbook and pen which she places on the table.

“Oh, sorry,” Isabelle says. “I’m just so used to this chair being free. You don’t mind, right?” She asks, chewing on the top of her pen. Clary’s eyes drift from Isabelle’s to the pen, to her mouth. Clary nods.

“Yeah, fine. Don’t worry about it,” Clary says and mentally reprimands herself for being such a push over.

It doesn’t surprise Clary at all when the French teacher enters, catches sight of Isabelle’s legs over Clary’s lap, and doesn’t say anything. Isabelle has everyone in this school, teachers included, wrapped around her pinkie finger it seems and Clary can’t help but be incredibly impressed.

Although French is one of Clary’s favourite classes, she finds herself unable to concentrate the entire lesson. She figures it has something to do with Isabelle’s legs draped over her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to the lovely moll for beta-ing this chapter for me <3


	3. III

Clary wears a golden cross around her neck. It’s one of a kind, inscribed with her initials and sized perfectly to fall between her collarbones. Her mother gave it to her when she was just a child, and ever since it has served as a crutch for her. If she ever feels nervous or anxious, she finds herself playing with the necklace, running her fingers across the cross and twisting it in her hand. It reminds her of her purpose and of her promise to God.

She finds herself twisting it between two fingers while she sits opposite from Isabelle at lunch. They’re sat at a wooden table, lined on either side with matching chairs. There’s four seats at this table, but Clary notices no one make a move to sit next to them.

In the canteen setting, the cliques are obvious. They all crowd at their respective tables, heads bowed in conversation. Occasionally a group will halt conversation and turn to look at Clary before turning back, causing the conversation to resume, in hushed whispers this time. Everything can be heard in the canteen, due to the high ceiling that causes sounds to echo loudly. There is no privacy here.

“Ignore them,” Isabelle declares bluntly. Clary turns away from the groups of girls to find Isabelle half-way through the process of drizzling Caesar dressing over her salad. Her red-stained lips are pursed as she shakes the tub of dressing for the final few drops and then successfully throws it into the bin that sits just a few metres away.

“I’m _trying_ ,” Clary responds, staring down at her own lunch. “It’s just hard when no one can seem to take their eyes off you.” In an attempt to prove her point, Clary gestures lightly to the girls that surround them, Isabelle turns to find them all staring at their shared table. They turn around instantly when Isabelle narrows her eyes at them.

Isabelle turns back from them, the danger in her eyes disappearing, and reaches out to take Clary’s free hand. Her tan fingers interlock with Clary’s pale ones reassuringly.

“Don’t worry,” she smirks. “I get that all the time.”

Clary rolls her eyes and pulls her hand from Isabelle’s.

“Oh, ha-ha,” she says sarcastically. “Very funny.”

Isabelle only sticks her tongue out in response before pushing a leafy green forkful into her mouth. A few minutes pass in silence before Isabelle speaks again.

“Honestly, don’t worry. If it makes you feel better, they talk about me behind my back too.”

Clary raises an eyebrow. She finds it hard to believe that someone so pretty would be anything other than popular. After all, she is head girl. How could she not be popular?

“Why?” Clary asks, genuinely curious.

Isabelle takes another forkful and chews it slowly, her face contorting into something like pain for a split second. Clary instantly regrets it, it’s clear that she’s gone too far. She finishes chewing and forces her mouth into a smile.

“It’s my brother, Alec. He’s gay,” she tells her. “They – the other girls – don’t like it, I guess? They think he’s a sinner and that he’s left God but, that’s not true, you know? God made him like that and who could deny love?” Isabelle rambles quickly, twisting the fork over and over nervously between her fingers.

“You know it’s not your fault though, right?” Clary tries to reassure her, forcing her blue eyes to meet Isabelle’s fiery brown ones. “It’s not your fault that your brother has chosen this path.”

Something flickers in Isabelle’s eyes – it’s the scorching sensation of betrayal, the embers of forming anger - and she breaks contact. Clary notices that her attempt to reassure Isabelle was misjudged.

“ _Chosen_ ,” Isabelle breathes. “Alec was _born_ like that, Clary, he didn’t _chose_ anything.” Isabelle runs her fingers through her hair, the red tips of her nails sinking into waves of dark hair. Clary swallows, she doesn’t know any better.

“Oh – no – _I didn’t mean_ , I – it’s just it’s what I’ve always been taught, you know – I just didn’t think,” she flusters as she drops the golden cross from her fingers to fall back to her milky skin. Isabelle allows herself to smile – it’s slight, a whisper of understanding, a glimpse of sympathy – and then she takes another bite of salad.

“I used to think like that too,” she tells Clary, “It’s hard to shake, as well, especially when it’s all you’ve ever been taught from the time you were born.”

“But,” she continues. “Alec is no different from us, he isn’t a _sinner,_ he’s _himself_.” Clary nods. She doesn’t understand, not fully, but she’s willing to learn, to change.

They sit in silence for a while, not an all-encompassing silence where Clary or Isabelle are struggling to say anything, mouths disobeying their commands, but nice silence, a silence of understanding and mutual respect. They eat, they fidget and Clary takes in the canteen around her; large, shaped stained glass windows, rows of oxfords crossing the stone floor and the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume. Clary finds peace, playing with her cross and becoming wrapped in the Chanel No 5 scented air. She forgets where she is, until –

“Clary, there you are,” Lydia’s voice breaks the silence that Clary _had_ become accustomed to, _had_ enjoyed. “I thought you maybe would have sat with us, or like, something?” Isabelle raises an eyebrow at the unnecessary _like_ in Lydia’s sentence and shoots an amused glance at Clary who stifles a giggle.

“Well, you can, _like_ , sit with us now,” Clary tells her as Isabelle chokes on a salad leaf. Lydia pointedly glares at Isabelle before scraping a seat out from under the table and joining them. Maureen grabs the fourth seat, looking like she’d rather die than sit at the same table as Isabelle.

Clary leaves school that day with both Isabelle and Lydia’s numbers and hers saved on their phones. As soon as Isabelle had suggested over lunch that Clary take hers, Lydia had whipped out her rose gold iphone to do the exact same. Her phone buzzed incessantly with messages as she drove home.

By the time Clary gets home, the sun has set, turning the sky into a galaxy of pinks and purples. She parks in the drive and enters the house to see Luke asleep on the couch, a paper back lying across his chest. She smiles to herself before tracking down an old tartan blanket and gently placing it over him.

She chucks her bag and phone on her bed before stripping off her uniform and taking a quick shower. She throws her head back against the steaming water, washing off the stresses of her first day. The atmosphere is almost perfect – rose scented water, white steam swirling around her – but the buzzing of her phone remains constant, causing her to groan in annoyance every so often.

When she finally makes her way back to her room – a minimalist paradise; white furniture from ikea, plain white bedsheets and matching white walls – her phone is still buzzing. She reckons it must be a malfunction as she grabs it. She removes an armada of paperbacks from her bed and places them on her bedside table to make room for her to sit down. Clary opens her phone to three text messages from Isabelle.

(5:34) **okay so like you don’t know her, but Lydia was being super weird today also check out this funny meme i found**

(5:34) **[attached image]**

(5:37) **oh also, i added you to a group chat with me and my fave boys: alec, jace, magnus and raphael trust me they’re like sooo nice but they spam the chat so you might wanna put it on mute**

She sits there in silence for a moment, coming to the realisation that _Isabelle-headgirl-of-an-elite-private-school-Lightwood_ has sent her a _Spongebob_ meme.

Clary also finds she has at least one hundred unread messages from a group chat entitled “ _Izzy and the boys_ ” which she promptly mutes. She also finds a text from Lydia who has sent her an invitation to sit with her and her friends tomorrow at lunch if Clary is _“like_ okay with that”.  

She is in the process of carefully selecting the right combination of emojis to send back to Isabelle when her phone rings. _Isabelle_.

_Obviously_.

Clary breath hitches slightly then it resumes all at once, fast and heavy and she heats up, her cheeks red and burning. She waits a while, collects herself and answers the call.

“Oh my goodness girl, I have the best news,” Isabelle squeals down the phone, causing Clary to move it a bit further from her ear. “Magnus, as in Magnus Bane from the radio, as in my best friend Magnus, as in dating my brother Magnus, yeah, he’s having a party and we’re going.” Clary can’t help smile stupidly to herself as she takes in Isabelle’s excited tone.

“Oh, are we now?” She laughs, playing with a strand of her hair between her fingers.

“Yes, of course we are Clary, I am not having you miss out on one of the biggest parties of the year,” Isabelle commands.

Clary feels nervous then, nervous to tell Isabelle that she’s never been to a party and nervous to tell her that she’s scared, scared of alcohol and drinking and anything that could be considered sinful.

“It’s just-“Clary begins, hands shaking slightly.

“Just what?” Isabelle prompts.

“I’ve never been to a party, Izzy. I don’t know what to do, or how to drink and if you saw my dancing, I can guarantee that you would never want to hang out with me again.” Isabelle giggles then, her soft tone causing Clary’s stomach to become fuzzy.

“Oh, is that all it is?” Isabelle asks. “I swear that I will protect you the whole night and never leave your side, I’ll guide you through it – I am, after all, a seasoned pro when it comes to parties.”

Clary glances over at her over spilling wardrobe – all faded, ripped jeans, sweatpants, tank tops and old camp t-shirts – and _sighs_.

“Okay,” Clary admits defeat. “I’ll go, but I still don’t have anything to wear.”

“Luckily for you, I have a huge closet and a little black dress with your name on it.”

Clary blinks.

_Sweet baby Jesus._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't update a lot because i get super nervous posting things like i can't take criticism very well but i'll only ever get better if i try...
> 
> anyway, here is chapter three
> 
> it's jus gonna get more gay and more angsty from here on out


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my favourite chapter that i've written (even though the end is the actual devil) 
> 
> i also wanna say thank you to my tol moll for your lovely feedback and amazing moodboards that you make me honestly they're the best and so, so aesthetic

Clary wakes up the next day face first in a French textbook. She lifts it from her face, allowing the Californian sun streaming into the room to hit the back of retinas fully. Instantly, her hands go to her eyes to guard from the blinding light.

“Oh _fuck off_ ,” she mutters through her teeth and forces herself to sit up to stop the alarm on her phone. Clary is the first to admit that she isn’t a full human being at seven am, so she gets up, slips her feet into a pair of white bunny slippers and makes her way to the kitchen to pour herself a cup of black coffee.

She passes Luke on her way to the kitchen who is still wrapped up on the sofa, covered in a tartan blanket. His breathing is steady, even as Clary tip toes her way past him. It’s only while pouring her coffee into a mug that reads, “ _What Would Beyoncé Do?_ ” that she realises Luke still owes her a pizza. She makes a mental note to remind him with a sticky note as she takes the first sip of coffee and exhales happily. _God is good_.

She downs the rest of the mug while at the counter and pours herself another before heading back to her room, bunny slippers plodding gently across the light wooden flooring. She goes about her morning routine, applying a layer of peach lipstick – Isabelle’s influence – and getting dressed in her Magdalene uniform. She rolls the skirt up once and doesn’t button the top button of her blouse. She doesn’t quite know why.

She gathers up her schoolwork and throws it all into her satchel and is ready to leave when she catches sight of herself in the antique mirror resting against the wall of her bedroom. Her hair is loose - bright red curls riding down her shoulders - and her lips are slightly plumper. She also can’t help but admire her legs which the totally-not-regulation-skirt shows off perfectly.

She watches herself hold up two finger guns and shoot.

“ _Looking good Fairchild_ ,” she says to herself, before falling into giggles over the stupidity of her actions. Isabelle texts her then, the vibration of the phone causing Clary to jump.

(7:46) **you’re sitting next to me in church this morning btw deal with it x**

(7:46) _damn lightwood is that anyway to talk to me?_

(7:47) **i see no complaints so i’m taking that as a yes cya there babe x**

Clary smiles to herself before pocketing her phone and leaving her room. Luke is still asleep as she crosses over to the kitchen to put her mug into the dishwasher.

Before leaving, she writes, “ _you owe me pizza_ ” on a sticky note and gently pushes it onto his book to see when he wakes up.

 

* * *

 

When Clary pulls up to the school, she’s again greeted with a multitude of stares by the surrounding girls. Clary is glad she’s wearing aviators so the other girls can’t see her falter. She spots Isabelle almost instantly. She’s leaning against a wall – black leather jacket hugging her figure tightly, her long dark hair tamed into two French braids and gold hoops swaying – smoking a cigarette. The other girls avoid her, choosing to keep, at minimum, a 10 metre distance between them and her.

Clary marches straight up to her, ginger curls dancing behind her. The other girls staring becomes more intense as she reaches Isabelle who smiles widely upon seeing Clary.

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t scare you off, Fairchild,” she smiles, drops the cigarette to the ground and puts it out with a heeled black boot.

“Are you allowed to do that?” Clary asks, gesturing to the cigarette that lies on the ground. Isabelle laughs, all candy-pink lips and white teeth and she shakes her head.

“Absolutely not, Clary,” she tells her. “But I’m Isabelle Lightwood: head girl of Magdalene Academy and princess of the disgraced Lightwood family and I stopped caring a long time ago.”

She wraps her arm around Clary’s then and begins walking towards the Church that sits on the left side of the building. Clary hates how the other girls stare but she notices that Isabelle loves every single second of it.

 

* * *

 

 

Isabelle ushers her into the back pew of the church – expensive dark wood, lavishly decorated with gold detailing – and follows her in. The church is small and the school population of two hundred pupils just fits in. They squash together on pews while the one that Clary and Isabelle sit at remains empty, save from them.

She spots Lydia and Maureen instantly as they enter the church, a group of girls following behind them and hanging on their every word. Isabelle identifies them as the tennis team and Clary has to stop herself from asking why the fencing club don’t sit with Isabelle. She figures it may have something to with her brother.

Isabelle also points out Camille, a tall Asian girl with a wicked smile and black nails. The group of girls she sits with are remarkably pale, purple half-moons resting below their eyes. Clary takes off her sunglasses to inspect further.

“She has them train at nights, you know, the lacrosse team,” Isabelle explains. “They’re the best in the state but _my god_ do they hate her.”

“She doesn’t look sleep deprived at all though,” Clary notes. “Just her team.”

“Yeah, my club have theories,” Isabelle tells her. “She either injects coffee into her veins or she’s a vampire.” Isabelle wriggles two of her fingers in front of her mouth to imitate fangs and Clary rolls her eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

Clary sits with Lydia and her friends at lunch as Isabelle has head girl duties to attend to. The table she sits at has eight seats and all are filled with pretty girls with perfect pink nails and glowy skin. She sits in-between Maureen and Lydia which Maureen doesn’t seem to be happy with, occasionally shooting Clary a jealous glance.

Lydia introduces all her identical friends – Tiffany, Heather, Deborah, Louise and Cassandra – and Clary forgets their names almost instantly.

“Guys, this is Clary, she just moved here and she’s like _totally_ cute, _huh_?” The other girls all nod enthusiastically, staring more at Lydia than they are at Clary. “Where is it you moved from again, Clary?” Lydia asks.

“I came from Brooklyn over the summer,” Clary tells her, a wide smile plastered on her face, hoping that Lydia didn’t delve deeper, ask why she moved. Lydia didn’t seem to care much, however.

“Oh, that’s like the poor bit of New York, right?” Lydia asks but doesn’t expect a response, so Clary doesn’t bother. “That’s like, _so edgy_.” The others descend into a chorus of “ _oohs_ ” and “ _aahs_ ” making Clary feel more like something shiny than an actual human being.

“So, are you, like, on scholarship or something?” Maureen interjects, breaking up the chorus who all swivel to turn their eyes to Clary. The seven sets of eyes suddenly on Clary cause her to fidget nervously with the hem of her skirt under the table. “ _Well_ ,” Maureen insists, raising a dark eyebrow.

“I’m on a part scholarship,” Clary mumbles, biting down hard on her peach stained lips until the taste of metallic blood fills her mouth. “Artistic ability.”

Lydia smiles – it’s not kind, it’s a warning, it’s the way a predator looks at its prey when they know they have it trapped – and places a manicured hand – hot pink glitter - on Clary’s shoulder.

“That’s, like, so … _cute_ ,” Lydia tells her and the other girls all murmur their half-hearted agreements. Clary feels heat rising in her usually pale cheeks and mentally scorns herself for not owning foundation.

“So, like, anyway,” one of the girls begins, maybe Tiffany, Clary guesses. “Are you, like, friends with Isabelle Lightwood?” This gets the attention of the girls again who all turn to face her, causing her cheeks to flare up even more.

“I guess,” Clary shrugs. “She’s been super sweet to me.” The girl’s expressions instantly turn to sneers and they begin whispering among themselves.

“Probably only because she’s trying to turn you into a lesbian,” Maureen mutters and the other girls giggle, their blonde ponytails bouncing behind them.

“What?” Clary asks, gripping tightly onto the hem of her skirt, so hard she’s scared she might tear it to shreds. The other girls all look to Lydia instantly, as if it’s her story to tell and Clary finds herself joining them, turning to face a slightly embarrassed Lydia.

“She kissed me last year,” she begins. “At Maureen’s birthday party.” The girls give Lydia a sickly sympathetic look and Clary finds herself raising both eyebrows in slight shock.

“We figure it runs in the family,” one of the girls tells Clary. “Her brother is a _homosexual_ too.”

“Not to mention,” Maureen says. “Her parents embezzlement, oh, and the offshore bank accounts.” Clary raises her clammy hands to swipe her hair behind her ears, allowing more air to hit her burning cheeks.

“Her parents caused the Lightwood family to fall from grace,” Lydia tells her. “But the Lightwood children drowned it completely.” Clary feels like she’s been hit in the stomach – bile begins to rise in her throat and her stomach feels like it’s doing backflips, somersaults, twists – and she’s struggling to breathe, to stomach oxygen. She hopes the other girls don’t notice but they do, of course they notice.

 

* * *

 

 

Clary is grateful that she had no other classes with Isabelle for the rest of the day and as she pushes her sunglasses over her eyes and makes her way to her car, she couldn’t feel more blessed to be going home and plans on hugging Luke for a solid hour. But Isabelle is leaning against her car, cigarette hanging from her pink lips and Clary is _seething_ –

Isabelle’s lips form a smile as she sees Clary approach but it quickly fades as she takes in Clary’s expression. Hair flying madly behind her as she strides forward, peach lips moulded into a dangerous frown.

“Get off my car,” she tells Isabelle matter-of-factly. “It’s expensive.”

“I’m expensive,” Isabelle quips but follows Clary’s instructions and steps back, allowing Clary to unlock the car and get in, ignoring Isabelle the entire time.

“Well, are you going to stay there?” Clary asks her, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head. Isabelle looks at her intently, searching her eyes for a sign of something, of anything. Her expression is scared but it’s also angry and Clary watches as Isabelle narrows her eyes slightly. She takes a drag from her cigarette, exhaling dark grey smoke.

“What did Lydia tell you?” She demands, dropping the cigarette to the floor and putting it out with her boot. She puts both hands on her hips, and stares at Clary who tries to avert her gaze at all costs.

“I think you know what Lydia told me,” Clary answers, meeting Isabelle’s gaze which burns into her. Isabelle scoffs, flicking a braid behind her shoulder.

“You honestly believe that?” Isabelle questions her. Clary reaches over to buckle her seatbelt, desperate to escape the situation.

“I don’t know what to believe Isabelle,” Clary says acidly. “But how about we start with the fact that you’re defying God, _oh_ , and then, to make it _worse_ , you’re preying on girls like Lydia.” Isabelle purses her lips angrily.

“Lydia kissed me,” Isabelle states. “And that’s not even it, it’s, _it’s_ – the fact that you can’t wrap your head around the fact that some people are gay. You’re so frustrating, _my god_. Gay people aren’t defying God and if you can’t wrap your head around that, well, I don’t want you anywhere near me.”

Clary scoffs bitterly, the metallic taste of blood still lingering on her tongue.

“It’s not like I want to be near you anyway,” Clary bites. “Who knows _what_ you might try.”

Clary replaces her sunglasses on her face and starts the car while Isabelle lights another cigarette and takes a drag.

The last thing Clary sees before pulling out of the carpark is Isabelle’s perfectly manicured middle finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i also have no commitments for the rest of the summer now apart from work and occasionally getting drunk so this should hopefully be updated more regularly than it was in the past (well at least once a week is the goal)


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when i was like oh it's the summer holidays so i'll update like once a week yeah i'm sorry lol
> 
> this chapter has been written three times like there are three different versions of it and every one leads the story in a different direction but i went for the most angsty one because i'm trash

Lydia texts Clary that night – a carefully constructed, grammar checked message inviting her to join the tennis team. It’s friendly and inviting until the last line, “No one could expect you to be on Isabelle’s fencing team now… I’m sorry we didn’t tell you earlier.” Clary looses a breath and plays with a strand of her hair as she reads the message over and over, weighing her options.

Isabelle had been nothing but nice to her, but people can hide who they are. It was only a matter of time before Clary would find out about what she had done to Lydia, about her… _lifestyle._

She accepts Lydia’s offer.

The next morning, she paints her nails baby pink and her lips match. She smiles at herself in the mirror, watches the tug of the corner of her mouth, watches the pink contort into something devilish, something dangerous.

Isabelle would have to know who she was dealing with. Clary wasn’t someone who would accept people forcing themselves on others, even if they had been nice to her.

* * *

 

She walks down the corridor with Lydia’s group – an eight strong line of girls with too short skirts and knee high socks – and she doesn’t feel at home but she’s never felt safer. Girls surround her on either side and every so often, Lydia offers smiles of encouragement. The other girls stare at them as they pass, making their way to French class. Clary realises this is what power feels like. Power in numbers anyway, Isabelle was quite capable of getting this reaction just by herself.

Isabelle is already sitting in her usual seat when Clary walks into the class, her legs flung over the other chair that sits at the desk. A message. _You’re not welcome anywhere near me._ Lydia notices too and she scoffs, before linking her arm with Clary’s and leading her towards another seat.

“She’s so petty,” Lydia giggles and Clary forces herself to laugh too, even though it feels wrong in her mouth and her conscience – bitter and metallic.  

Clary sneaks glances at Isabelle for the entirety of the lesson, but she doesn’t return them, eyes focused on the board. She speaks once – perfect French – and it makes Clary want to set herself on fire.

* * *

 

“So, like, what do your parents do?” Heather asks Clary. She takes a sip of diet coke before answering, trying to drag it on for as long as possible.

“My mum is dead and her friend, Luke, looks after me - he owns a bookstore by the sea,” Clary forces a smile.

“Oh,” Lydia interjects. “That’s really cool. My parents are just boring lawyers.” Cassandra and Louise sigh at this, agreeing with Lydia. As if having lawyer parents is the worst thing ever. Clary can’t possibly begin to understand them. Maureen’s parents, it turns out, are famous songwriters. Lydia’s parents were professional tennis players before their law careers and she found herself being their forced protégée. Clary feels sorry for Lydia as she tells her of how she’s been forced into tennis lessons since she was three years old.

Clary can’t quite tell if she fits into this group, but she decides to stay with them anyway. They are nice enough, if slightly entitled and they’ve accepted her almost seamlessly into the group. She walks the corridors with them, sits at lunch with them and will start attending tennis practice with them after schools and on weekends. Clary has never had a group of friends before and as she watches them take turns put their numbers into Clary’s phone, carefully selecting emojis that best represent them to put next to their names, she feels a part of something.

Clary totally forgets about Isabelle’s existence until school ends and she makes her way to her car, ponytail bouncing behind her. Isabelle is leaning against the wall in her usual spot, cigarette between her fingers. They make eye contact for just a second and the glare Isabelle gives Clary leaves her _fucking frozen_. She turns away instantly.

* * *

 

Isabelle’s room is dark and it smells like roses. The slightly ajar window lets in a light breeze and the purple gossamer curtains that hang over the window flutter delicately, the moon shining through them.

She burns candles – at least ten at a time and all rose scented – at night. She likes watching the flame flicker, the wax burn away until there is nothing left, until there is puddle of wax and a stumpy wick. She likes the quiet destruction: the idea of something slowly burning away without a single sound. Isabelle likes to think she is the flame – she flickers, she twists, she burns – but as she lies on her bed in nothing but the black _Agent Provocateur_ set Meliorn got her for her birthday, she feels like the wax. Quietly burning away, being destroyed without a sound.

Clary- _fucking_ -Fairchild.

Isabelle grabs a fistful of bedsheets, the black silk slipping through her fingers, cast purple by the sea of curtains blowing gently. She’s frustrated and angry. She’s _fucking seething_ at this girl. Clary Fairchild and her regulation skirt, red curls and face dotted with freckles.

Isabelle is having a _fucking_ breakdown, tearing herself apart over this girl and she needs to talk, needs to escape. She is not rose scented wax.

So, she slips on a sheer gown – it’s hot pink with faux fur cuffs like cotton candy clouds – and makes her way into the hallway. Isabelle doesn’t recommend tax evasion but when her feet touch the marble floor of the C shaped mezzanine floor, she doesn’t blame her parents too much for storing all their money in an offshore bank account – _The Circle_.

The other girls can talk all they want because the Lightwoods could buy and sell all their pretty, blonde asses.

She makes her way down one of the two staircases that curve on either side of the mezzanine and lead to the ground floor. Isabelle walks to the kitchen, passing several expensive statues on her way. She finds Alec there, expectantly, his hands wrapped around Magnus’s waist who is busy at the stove.

“That’s a fire hazard,” Isabelle tells them jokingly, taking a seat at breakfast bar. They turn to face her, their faces lighting up with smiles as they see her.

“Alec is just too hot,” Magnus purrs and places a kiss on his cheek. “He’s always a fire hazard.” Isabelle rolls her eyes as the tell-tale red creeps into Alec’s cheeks, then to his nose and his forehead until he is completely red.

“He certainly seems to be burning up,” Isabelle smirks but it falters and she turns away quickly and reaches for an apple sitting in the fruit bowl beside her. She takes a bite, all while Alec looks at her intently.

“Something’s wrong,” he states, removing his hands from Magnus’s waist and moving over to lean on the opposite side of the breakfast bar. His features are concerned as he searches Isabelle’s eyes for a flicker of something that might suggest what’s wrong.

“You know me so well big brother,” Isabelle tries to smile again but it doesn’t quite work this time, she doesn’t quite have the strength to fake it.

Magnus turns away from the stove to join Alec, concern rising in his face also. “What is it?” He asks, glitter lined eyes searching hers. “Boy issues? Girl issues?”

Isabelle takes another bite of the apple, savouring the sharpness of it. Then, she tells them everything about Clary Fairchild. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, i made a board for this fic if you wanna see: https://uk.pinterest.com/cruickshankmill/your-halos-full-of-fire/


	6. VI

Clary pushes up her gold  _Dior So Real_ sunglasses to see the form of Lydia’s house come into focus – an obnoxious, ostentatious replica of the White House. The faux Grecian estate is fronted by two white pillars split by an extravagant staircase leading up to a set of double doors and dotted on either side with triangle shaped topiaries. Clary replaces her rose-tinted sunglasses when the white glare from the building becomes too much.

She’s sitting shotgun in Lydia’s red Aston martin DB9 convertible, as  _Kendrick Lamar’s_ , “ _Bitch don’t kill my vibe_ ” plays softly through the radio. They pull into Lydia’s drive, white pebbles shifting softly and crackling beneath the wheels of the car. She steers it around the curved driveway, circling the waterfall at its centre. It’s bright white too, the crisp clear water reflecting as the sun hits it on its descent into the pool of blue below. Clary doesn’t know if she’s ever seen something so pristine, save for Lydia herself who matches the house perfectly in her pink, pressed  _Ralph Lauren_  polo and white tennis skirt. Clary finds her eyes drifting to Lydia’s skirt as she pulls the car to a halt, the way the pleats ride up against her tan thighs-

“We’re here,” Lydia announces, as the music stops suddenly and the silence becomes filled with the sound of Lydia chewing bubblegum. She pushes her  _Miu Miu_ frames out of her face to rest on her head as she blows a bright pink bubble and opens the door of her car. Clary blinks and collects herself. The bubble pops.

Clary follows suit as Lydia leaves the car and trails behind her, nervously fidgeting with the hem of her crop top, as she’s led up the staircase and through the front door. She is mesmerised by Lydia’s blonde Dutch braids bouncing against her baby pink polo as she walks ahead. Lydia is half way across the marble floor of the foyer when she turns on her heels, plain white  _Adidas superstars_ screeching across the floor, to face Clary.

“My parents are gone for a few days,” Lydia informs her, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “So, we have the place to ourselves.”

“Where are they?” Clary asks to avoid awkward silence as they begin to ascend the cascading staircase that leads to the mezzanine above. Everything about the house screams luxury and she can’t help the twinge of jealousy pulling at her as she passes the expensive artwork that covers the walls - they probably cost more than Clary's house. 

“God knows,” she laughs, grabbing Clary’s arm to steer her left at the top of the stairs. “They’re always gone – New York, London, Hong Kong – they’re very busy people.”

Clary can’t help but feel sorry for Lydia when she says that, can’t help but notice the way Lydia’s voice falls and the way she looks away from Clary as she says it.

“Well,” Clary smiles. “You have me to keep you company.”

Lydia tries to hide it, but Clary swears she sees her smile as she ducks into her room.

Lydia’s room is nothing short of an eyesore – everything is pink: curtains, beddings, rug and furniture – it’s almost as if a child had eaten too much candyfloss at the fair and puked it up in Lydia’s room. Clary hates it but it suits Lydia perfectly and so she says nothing as she takes a seat on a fuchsia chaise longue. The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume and  _Victoria Secret_  body lotion. A stuffed unicorn catches Clary’s eye as it sits atop Lydia’s queen sized bed. She smiles to herself.

“I’ll be back in a second, babe,” Lydia tells Clary before disappearing into her personal closet and shutting the door behind her. When she emerges, she’s wearing a white crop top with shoulder cut-outs that clings perfectly to her body, a matching white pencil skirt that shows off a waist to hip ratio that Clary could only dream off and a pair of baby pink suede heels that lace up to just above her ankles. Clary bites her lip as Lydia jokingly throws herself against the door frame and poses dramatically.

“What do you think, Clary?” Lydia grins, one arm outstretched against the frame of the door and the other resting on her hip. “Nice, huh?”

“It’s perfect,” Clary nods. “You look absolutely stunning.”

“I hope so,” Lydia smiles. “I’ve got to look incredible for this party tonight.”

“A party?” She asks, playing with a strand of hair. Lydia just grins in response and walks up to where Clary is sitting and grabs her hands to pull her up.

“Yes, a party,” Lydia smirks. “Which starts in around three hours and you don’t seem to have an outfit?”

“What are you even talking about?” Clary asks as Lydia begins to pull her in the direction of the closet.

* * *

 

Two hours later, Clary is stood in front of a full length mirror admiring the girl that stands in front of her. The stranger that stares back at Clary is gorgeous – her usual milky skin has been bronzed to perfection, her face is flaw free and her skinny frame appears fuller. Lydia had found a pale pink, low-cut bodycon dress for Clary to wear and it seemed to show off every curve she believed to be non-existent. Her usually makeup free face had been perfected with contour, winged eyeliner and false lashes.

“I look so gorgeous,” Clary smiles widely at herself in the mirror. “Oh my gosh, Lydia, thank you so much.” Lydia appears behind her, wrapping her arms around Clary’s waist and pulling her into a hug.

“It was all my pleasure, babe,” Lydia replies and strides across the room to grab a gold clutch bag that rests atop her pink dresser. “I do love makeovers.”

Clary turns on her heel, stumbling slightly over the heeled boots Lydia had given her to wear. 

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” Clary says, pouting slightly. Lydia only laughs as she throws a wad of cash into her clutch and a pack of strawberry and vanilla flavoured bubblegum.

“That would ruin the suspense,” Lydia grabs her hand and leads her out onto the marble floored hallway. “However, I can promise one thing.” Lydia tells Clary, a whisper of a smile forming on her lips.

“What’s that?” Clary asks, as they begin to descend the stairs. Lydia still has Clary’s hand in hers.

“That it’ll be fun as hell,” Lydia grins and breaks their hand holding when they reach the foot of the stairs. “Anyway, we need to get some drink.”

Clary freezes. She’s never drank before and has tried to avoid alcohol in all situations, but what did she expect? It’s a teenage party. She forces herself to shrug.

“Sure.”

* * *

As Lydia leads her to the wine cellar, Clary realises there’s nothing about the house that could surprise her at this point. She stands in the corner of the cellar, the walls lined with hundreds of bottles of wine, as Lydia strides ahead towards one of the walls stacked with bottles. She has no idea what any of the labels mean, and just watches as Lydia glides about the room, selects a bottle, examines it’s label and then replaces it. This goes on for about ten minutes before Lydia produces two bottles of wine and hands one to Clary.

“We good?” Clary asks, scanning the room one last time before making for the staircase back to the ground floor.

“We’re great,” Lydia pushes her freshly curled hair behind her ears, where gold hoops hang. The same earrings Isabelle wears. “These are perfect reds.” Clary doesn’t know anything about wine so just smiles and nods.

* * *

 

They pick up Maureen from an equally stunning house, only smaller and more rustic looking. There’s a collection of cars outside her house that rival Lydia’s own. Clary doesn’t understand why people need that many cars.

Maureen moodily takes the backseat, not hiding the fact that she’s angry about Clary claiming the front.

They set off down the highway, Beyoncé blasting through the air as the sun begins to fade, casting a sunset behind the car as it races towards its destination. Lydia drives them into a less suburban area of California with buildings that house luxury apartments and penthouses. It reminds Clary of New York and for a brief moment, she lets herself escape California and imagines herself in her old home with her mother and Luke.

She hasn’t let herself, won’t let herself think about her past. But as Lydia drives through the more built up areas, she can’t help but let her mind wander, can’t help but think about how things were, how things should be.

Her thoughts come to an abrupt halt as Lydia pulls into a private parking lot full to the brim of expensive cars behind a modern-looking apartment block with huge balconies and a penthouse half covered in floor to ceiling windows. Through them, Clary can see flashing lights and people dancing.

Clary turns to face Lydia, who keeps blowing and popping bubbles between hot-pink lips. Something about it drives Clary crazy.

“Okay, would you just tell me where we are already?” She pouts. Lydia smiles. Maureen rolls her eyes.

“We’re at Magnus Bane’s, _dollface_ , now get out the car,” Maureen drones. “We have a party to crash.”

The blood drains from Clary’s face as Lydia smirks and cuts the exhaust. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to my lovely babe moll who got me out of a month long writers block and beta'd this chapter for me she's such a queen
> 
> i'm sorry this took so long to update, since i last updated to the 9th of august i was literally too scared of my results coming in to literally do anything at all but i got into uni, so all is well!
> 
> anyway, the next chapter is the party so get ready for shit to hit the fan and more clary/izzy action


	7. VII

They sneak in with a group of college kids. About ten boys of an equally tall height tower over them as they sneak into Magnus Bane’s penthouse.

Clary, Lydia and Maureen push and intertwine their way into the middle of the group of boys, who don’t seem to mind in the slightest. A lightly tanned one with a sweep of messy blonde hair even smirks at Clary. They all shuffle awkwardly in time until they reach the door. The most beautiful man Clary has ever seen stands there, leaning slightly against the door frame. He’s tall with a shock of gelled black hair, expensive clothes and golden glitter lining his amber eyes that shine like molten gold when they hit the light. Clary wants to paint him. With a martini glass in one hand, he uses the other to usher the group in.

“Ah,” he smiles at them fondly, especially the blonde. “Alec’s friends. He’s by the bar, but try not to steal him away from me for too long.”

At this, the blonde boy laughs, before winking at the gorgeous man.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Magnus,” he says before the group begins to move again and the three girls are dragged along with them. Just like that, they’re in. They’re in the biggest party of the year. Clary can’t help but feel slightly like a criminal. A really lame criminal, who crashes a party they weren’t invited to? The answer stands right in front of her.

“Well, that was exciting. Wasn’t it?” Lydia grins broadly and hands Clary a bottle of wine. Maureen frowns at this. Clary really didn’t get what Maureen’s problem with her was at all. She’d honestly done nothing to her, but anytime Lydia decided to show Clary any attention she became public enemy number one in Maureen’s eyes. It made her uneasy.

“Sure was,” Maureen smiles at her, running a hand through her hair. “Let’s go get wasted.”

 Maureen grabs Lydia’s hand and pulls her through the crowd, both of them giggling wildly. Clary tries to keep up but finds herself lost in the crowd almost instantly. She wonders at all the people she sees – they are by far the most interesting people she’s ever seen and all she wants to do is paint them, sketch them, and carve their gorgeous faces out of marble. Everyone is doused in glitter, and when the light hits them while they twist to the music, they look otherworldly. Clary feels so plain in comparison.

Clary pushes her way through groups of people who shine like the _fucking_ moon to find the kitchen where she finds a wine glass to pour Lydia’s gift into. She reckons she needs something to drink if she is going to socialise after being abandoned by Lydia and Maureen. Did they know Isabelle had originally invited her? Did they even know Isabelle was here? Why would they come? She pours a glass and drinks. And drinks. Until the bitter, red liquid has disappeared from the glass and she pours another.

“Clary, right?” She twists unstably on her heels to find the blonde she was standing next to earlier. In the brighter lights of the kitchen, she can see how gorgeous he is – sandy blonde hair that falls in his face, gorgeous cerulean eyes and amazing bone structure. He puts both hands on her arms to stabilise her. Her breath catches in her throat.

“Too much wine?”

“Yeah, Clary, and no, too many inches I think?” She points down to her shoes and the boy stifles a laugh. “Anyway,” she raises an eyebrow. “How do you know who I am?”

“I’m Jace,” he informs her. “Isabelle put you in a groupchat with her and few other guys, remember?” In all honesty, Clary had totally forgotten all about that, having muted the chat as soon as she was added. She hadn’t really wanted to think about it either, she didn’t want to have to think about Isabelle. It always made her feel guilty. She didn’t know why thinking about Isabelle made her feel guilty, _ungodly_.

“Oh yeah,” Clary takes a gulp of wine. “That.”

 Jace blinks.

“Isabelle said it’s hard to miss you,” he tells her. “She said it’s as if your hair is burning.”

Clary’s free hand instinctively reaches for a strand of her curled hair. She twists it between her fingers.

“Yeah,” she smiles half-heartedly. “It sure is hard to miss.”

 He nods and chuckles softly and shifts his body to jump onto the kitchen counter then he reaches a hand out to Clary, a silent request for her to follow him. She places her glass down on the counter – black marble, smooth and surely expensive – and is grateful for the rest it gives her feet when she sits down.

“I haven’t heard of you much since then though,” he confesses. “I haven’t really talked to Isabelle in a while.”

 Clary sighs in relief as she realises this means that Jace doesn’t know they have fallen out and so she doesn’t need to talk about it awkwardly.

“That’s a shame,” she says. “Have you been busy?” He nods.

“Yeah, I do a lot of sports at college,” Jace tells her. “Plus, I always seem to get invited to so many parties, I have no free time at all.”

“Oh my,” she smirks. “It must be so hard getting invited to all those parties, how do you cope?”

“Oh, you know,” he matches her smirk – and she can’t deny how _fucking_ good he looks when he does that – and runs a hand through his hair. “It’s hard. But what can I expect when I’m so dazzlingly attractive?”

“I can imagine,” she giggles and reaches for her cross necklace to turn it between her fingers. Someone calls his name then and his blue eyes light up as she watches a taller, male version of Isabelle come striding towards them with a bottle of tequila. He’s dressed in all black and looked ridiculously good, and twice as drunk.

“Alec,” Jace jumps from the counter to give him a hug as he crosses – _stumbles_ – through the kitchen in record time. “How are you?”

“Very drunk.” Alec smiles lopsidedly and warmly. In the brighter lights of the kitchen, Clary can see more clearly the striking similarities to Isabelle. Soft dark hair, tanned skin and warm bronze eyes that burn so bright Clary has to look away.

“Tequila shot?”

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” Jace laughs and Alec’s face twists into mock offense.

“Wow, Jace, I gotta say I expected better from you,” Alec says in a faux serious tone and places two shot glasses on the counter and fills them with the clear liquid. “You have to take one. Haven’t you heard? It’s the party of the year.”

“Fine, but jeez, Alec, you’re meant to be the uptight one.” Jace puts his hands up in defeat and raises the shot glass to his lips before downing it. He doesn’t even flinch. Alec follows suit and doesn’t seem to flinch either, but Clary reckons this is down to him being too drunk to even taste it.

 “You up for a tequila shot?” Clary snaps out of her own thoughts, realising Jace is talking to her.

“I suppose.” She smiles nervously. Clary has never had tequila, but the way the other two boys took it, she figures it couldn’t be that strong. So, she isn’t that scared when Jace hands her the shot and she holds it against her lips. Alec notices her existence at this point.

“Hey,” he slurs. “I know you, right? Red hair – you’re Clary, right?”

 She takes the shot. And flinches, a lot. She nods at Alec, her mouth burning horribly so she takes a sip of wine.

“Yeah, this is Clary,” Jace talks for Clary, realising that she’s not really in any position to speak in her current state. “She’s in that group chat, remember?” Alec looks her up and down, the distaste evident on his beautiful face.

“Yeah, I know you,” he tells her, looking down at her. “I don’t like you.” With that, he stumbles out of the kitchen, tequila bottle in hand. Clary freezes.

“What was that about?” She asks Jace who merely shrugs and takes a swig of beer.

“I honestly wouldn’t think about it too much, Alec doesn’t like anyone,” he informs her. “Plus, he’s ridiculously drunk – I can’t wait for Magnus to have to look after him tomorrow, he’ll be so embarrassed.”

“They’re together, right?” Clary asks, biting down on her lip.

“Yeah – did you not know? They’re all over the gossip magazines – Radio Presenter Magnus Bane and his beau Alec Lightwood,” he tells her. “The press had a field day that a public figure like Magnus was dating a Lightwood.”

“Why was that a problem?” Clary asks.

“You know about the Lightwoods, right? The whole tax evasion thing – it wasn’t even Alec and Isabelle’s fault but they get demonized for it all the same. I feel bad, ‘cause they’re technically my brother and sister. The Lightwoods adopted me when I was young, and I wish I could share some of their blame, and understand what they’re going through.”

Clary sits there for a moment in shock. She barely knows this boy and she feels so awful for him, he clearly blames himself for something that isn’t his fault and she hates to see him hurt like this. It’s either that or the copious amounts of wine that she’s drank.

“You know it isn’t your fault right? It isn’t Alec or Isabelle’s either. The world is just full of dicks,” Clary can say before she can stop herself.

“You’re right, Clary, the majority of people are dicks,” he chuckles. “Thank you for that.”

Clary shuffles off the counter, feet hitting the dark marble floor of the kitchen with a light thud. It’s only when she takes a step forward and wobbles slightly, her head spinning, does she realise she’s drank too much, too fast.

“Anytime,” she tells Jace, raising her hand in a mock salute before exiting the kitchen. She needs to lie down. She needs to lie dow-

All the colours Clary sees are twisting in her head like a palette she hasn’t bothered cleaning, mixing into a huge, kaleidoscopic ocean. Everything she sees contorts into a haze of fog, purple lights and pounding music and as she pushes her way through a sea of people, trying every door that could possibly lead her to somewhere she can lie down. She eventually reaches what looks like a guest room, all black furniture with gold accents, and throws herself across the queen sized bed. In her drunken haze, she tries to take in the room but can only focus on the gold in all the darkness. But nothing is more eye catching than the pair of gold hoops that rest on the black bedside table. Glowing like a lighthouse, it beckons Clary towards the rocks.

* * *

 

“Wow,” Clary blinks her eyes open as a soft light fills the room and a voice registers in her ears. “Who knew it was so easy to get you into my bed?”

Isabelle. Isabelle. _Isabelle._

Clary sits up instantly, the room swirling in her drunken state. She sees _her_. She sees Izzy standing at the foot of the bed, leaning against one of the columns of the four poster bed. Clary sees the smirk on her face, she sees the fire in her eyes and curve of her lips and it’s all _too much_.

“Isabelle, I’m sorry,” Clary slurs, blinking her eyes repeatedly to become adjusted to the candles that have been lit in the room while she slept. “I didn’t even know you had a room here.”

“Magnus said I could have it,” she tells Clary. “I stay here when I fall out with my parents.”

Clary’s mind is swirling and twisting but she can still make out Isabelle perfectly, as if she’s in high definition while the rest of the room is out of focus. Her dark brown hair is pulled into a high ponytail, two strands falling loose on either side to frame her bronzed face. Her lips are painted hot pink and she’s wearing a tiny black dress with a deep cut V shape in the front.

Clary swallows.

“That’s nice,” Clary mumbles, desperately wishing she hadn’t drank a whole bottle of wine. “He seems kind.”

Isabelle scoffs.

“Yeah, who would have thought,” she shoots. “Considering his _lifestyle_.”

 Her eyes narrow at Clary who instantly feels like prey sitting in the middle of Isabelle’s huge bed.

“You know I didn’t-” Clary manages to get out but is interrupted by Isabelle.

“Didn’t _what_ , Clary? Didn’t _think_? Didn’t use your brain?” Isabelle spits out.

Clary can see how frustrated she is.

“Don’t come for my family or me just because you got all your ideas from a book that’s thousands of years old, and a religion that is based on putting down anyone that isn’t a rich man.”

“Don’t bring my religion into this,” Clary shouts, feeling safe in the fact that the pounding music will block out any sound she makes. “Not every Catholic thinks like that.”

“Oh, so it’s just you that’s an asshole then?” Isabelle shoots back. Clary makes to move off the bed but Isabelle’s swift movements are quicker than her drunken ones and before she can make her way off, Isabelle’s hands are clamped onto her shoulder, forcing her to stay put.

“Well, Clary,” she mocks, head tilted to the side. “What is it? Are you going to blame your whole religion or just accept the fact that you’re an awful human being? Because we have so much time, I can wait – _oh_! That is – _unless_ – you need to rush back to _dearest_ Lydia who I apparently assaulted when it was _her_ who kissed _me_. Have you asked her about that, Clary? Has she told you yet?”

Clary is angry, _seething_. She knows now why the other girls are scared of Isabelle – Princess of the disgraced Lightwood family and head girl of Magdalene Academy. She knows why they avoid her, and why they won’t talk to her. Isabelle is sarcastic, vicious and _savage_ when she wants to be.

Clary pushes her off – weakly and sluggishly – but, not expecting it, Isabelle comes tumbling down on the bed next to her. Clary shifts her body so she’s hanging over Isabelle who’s lying on the bed – shiny black hair spread against the sheets.

“You don’t know what it’s like, Isabelle Lightwood, you don’t have a _fucking_ idea because you’re _oh so cool_ and shut off and mysterious and you just don’t give a _fuck_ about anything - you don’t care at all what it’s like,” Clary realises she is crying now, tears running down her flawless face that Lydia worked so tirelessly to perfectly contour with a beauty blender. “You don’t get it.”

Isabelle scoffs again, frustrated and angry, her own eyes starting to water.

“Oh yeah, it’s so hard to be you, isn’t it? Perfect, gorgeous, talented, _straight_ Clary Fairchild. Have you ever actually had a real problem in your entire life? Any problem that wasn’t trying so hard to put other people down because the bible tells you it’s okay?”

“You don’t know anything about me, Isabelle,” Clary spits, she can feel the burn of alcohol in her mouth, in her stomach. She can feel the burning in her eyes where her tears have mixed with mascara and eyeliner which is now surely running down her face. “You don’t know how it feels when everything you’ve ever known tells you that what you feel is disgusting and wrong.”

Clary moves from above Isabelle to sit on the corner of the bed, her head in her hands. Clary has never regretted anything more in her life. She shouldn’t even be here, she shouldn’t have drank an entire bottle of wine. Not when Isabelle was here.

She’s not an idiot, she knows the things she thinks about Isabelle don’t line up with what she knows. Clary doesn’t look at Isabelle and want her as a friend, _God no_. She looks at Isabelle and wants to eat her alive, wants to kiss her neck and tangle her hands in her hair. She wants to stare at those eyes until she burns and burns and _burns_. She could look at Isabelle until the flames lick at her body, until there’s nothing left of her but ashes.

Isabelle is crying when she asks Clary what she means. She sounds so small and fragile, like something she’d thought she’d known had shattered easily as glass.

“I mean,” Clary hiccups, a tear rolling off her jaw. “That I want to kiss you Isabelle. I want to kiss you until my lips are bloodied and bruised and I _want_ -”

Isabelle is kissing her.

Hands are tangled in her hair, hot skin is pressing against her own and she can’t breathe, can’t think as Isabelle kisses her like there’s nothing else in the world that could possibly matter as much. Isabelle burning like the sun and if she’s the sun, then Clary was Icarus. She’s too close and now, she’s burning, falling, drowning.

Isabelle’s lips are doused, smothered, dripping in candy pink gasoline and when Clary kisses her, she is the spark and _god_ , they _fucking burn_.

Clary isn’t quite ready to burn. It hurts too much.

She breaks the kiss and opens her eyes to see Isabelle staring back at her and Clary thinks that Isabelle must be the most gorgeous person she has ever seen. She looks at Isabelle and knows she would fight for her, would die for her.

And she loves her, if she even knows what that means fully. Loves her so much that every single part of her aches for Isabelle, aches to be near her and touch her and tell her everything. And she _can’t_ , she just _can’t_.

“I,” Clary stumbles over her words, scared she’ll cry again. “I am so sorry, I _can’t_ – _I can’t do this_.”

Clary watches Isabelle’s face fall, as her expression become guarded once more. Clary gets off the bed, walks to the door and leaves.

She exits the party with candy pink lipstick smudged all over her face, no one says anything, and no one notices enough to care. She hails a taxi and goes home, still smelling of alcohol and Isabelle. She figures alcohol makes you too honest.

Jace texts her the next day asking if she wants to go on a date. Clary says yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hi it me
> 
> as always, i wanna say thank you to my lovely beta moll (alineblackthorne on tumblr) for inspiring me to write, tagging me in tumblr posts, making me moodboards and trudging through all my awful grammar (she is a literal angel)
> 
> i also wanna say thank you to slytherinmurphy on tumblr for making me a gorgeous moodboard for this fic which i totally didn't squeal and cry over?? i'm like far too cool for that???
> 
> (also thank u to charley + laura who i force to read this fic and tell me what they think all the time because i'm an awful demon friend)
> 
> anyway, pre warning, i'm moving to uni next week and so this week is gonna be hectic for me and i likely won't get any writing done for a while although i will try my hardest


	8. VIII

Magnus is lounging on a red velvet chaise longue when Isabelle breaks the news. The morning light streams through the floor to ceiling windows of the recently cleaned penthouse. The maid came early.

“She kissed you?” Magnus gapes, instantly sitting up to get a better look at Isabelle, perching on a vintage armchair across from him. 

“Do you mean like, actually kissed you?”

“Yes, Magnus.” Isabelle rolls her eyes and sighs loudly. “She  _actually_  kissed me.”

Magnus stares at her as though she just revealed that JFK was an inside job, his mouth slightly ajar and his amber eyes wide.

“So, our perfect, straight Clary Fairchild isn’t so heterosexual after all?” he says, smiling mischievously.

“Well, it would appear that way,” Isabelle responds. “But we have a problem.”

Magnus nods solemnly.

“Go on.”

“Before it happened, we were sort of, y’know, fighting,” Isabelle explains. “Because of all the stuff she said, which totally looks different now, but anyway, we were fighting and then we were kissing and-”

“Well, that certainly is hot, although not exactly how Alexander and I-”

“Magnus! I’m the Lightwood sibling currently having a breakdown right now.”

He laughs, but not unkindly.

“You’re right, Isabelle. So, what’s your plan?”

“Well, Clary said that she couldn’t do it – I think she’s kept everything bottled up for so long and she finally let it out and, well, I think it scared her.”

Magnus nods again thoughtfully.

“You could always try and meet her and talk to her about it, talk her through it,” Magnus offers. “If she feels so bad about it, it’s probably because she’s in an environment that makes her feel guilty about it – you have to show her it’s okay.”

“You’re right, Magnus – I’ll text her.”

“I always am.”

Just as Isabelle, with the help of Magnus, finishes her perfectly crafted text asking Clary if she wants to meet up for coffee, a hungover Alec storms into the room. He’s brandishing his phone angrily, shaking it up and down.

Magnus just rolls his eyes as Isabelle bursts into giggles.

“Hey, no one can see what you’re trying to show us if you don’t stop moving.” Isabelle laughs, grabs the phone out of his hand, and reads the message before he can protest.

_**Jace (09:32)** _ _alec bro, you’ll never guess what!! that cute ginger girl, clary, remember?? izzy’s friend? yeah, well she agreed to go on a date with me this morning…i thank god everyday for isabelle having such hot friends_

 

It hits her suddenly. She’s fine – happy even – and then it’s like something she’s perfectly constructed has come falling to the ground. Her mouth goes dry, her hands start shaking and it’s like her stomach is twisting, pulling, snapping and she can’t, she just _can’t_.

 

Magnus and Alec can only watch as Isabelle’s face falls. She puts the phone down on the table and leaves. She doesn’t want anyone to see her cry. She was stupid to think that she and Clary could actually work.  _How embarrassing._

She doesn’t let her composure break until she reaches her car. A black Range Rover that her parents got for her – she doesn’t even know if it was bought legally or not. She’s become so numb, she doesn’t care.

She times herself, allows herself twenty minutes to cry. And she makes it count,  _God_ , she makes it count. When the timer goes off, she feels dizzy and disorientated, her mascara is completely gone and her vision is blurry. She stops the alarm and reaches into her black  _Celine_  to grab her makeup bag. She methodically removes and reapplies her makeup – a black smokey eye, false eyelashes and dark red lips.

She tries not to cry again as she starts her car and head for the suburbs. Her make-up is expensive and Clary isn’t worth two applications. She had been so stupid, so stupidly in love with the idea of Clary Fairchild – her porcelain skin dotted with freckles like a reverse constellation, fiery hair that seemed to burn – and the idea of them together. Isabelle has wanted Clary Fairchild ever since she walked into the head teachers office on Clary’s first day.

But she couldn’t let herself think about it, wouldn’t let herself think about it. So, she drives and drives until she reaches Camille’s house.

_

She didn’t want to come back here, but standing at Camille’s door, Isabelle knows she would have returned sooner for later.

Camille lives in a sprawling six bedroom mansion surrounded by acres of lush green grass. Her parents, investment bankers, are rarely home.

Isabelle takes a deep breath before she knocks. She will  _always_  come back here.

Camille answers the door wearing a black, sheer, floor-length robe and Isabelle knows she shouldn’t have come here, but she needs  _here._ Upon seeing Isabelle, Camille smirks like the cat that got the cream. Isabelle, so usually the predator, is always the prey here.

 

“You told me you weren’t coming back.” Camille smiles, baring her teeth. Isabelle can’t stand how  _fucking_  cocky she looks, like she’s just won the lottery. Isabelle looks down, looks at her black Valentino rock studs until her vision starts to go blurry again.  _Why did she come here?_

“I know,” Isabelle manages, but her voice wobbles. Camille notices, she always does. She steps forward, places her hand on Isabelle’s shoulders and leads her inside.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay,” Camille tells her, directing her towards the kitchen. “You know you’re safe here, don’t you Izzy?” 

Isabelle hates that. She hates the way her name rolls off Camille’s tongue like she’s won, because she has. She hates the way her name feels dirty in Camille’s mouth.

Isabelle has been coming to Camille’s since she was fifteen years old. At first she liked it. How Camille made her feel, emotionally and physically. She could make Isabelle roll her eyes back in pleasure, make her scream her name. She would listen to her too, and help her through things. And when your family is wrapped up in a highly controversial court case, anyone listening to you for even a second can make you feel loved. But it isn’t the same anymore. Isabelle knows it’s toxic,  _God_ , she knows better than anyone. But sometimes, Isabelle doesn’t have anyone else.

Camille distracts her. In the past it was from her parents, or Lydia, or school. She got better in her final year though, she was doing fine and then she met Clary, and things were good, they were _great_. The best they had ever been and Isabelle hadn’t needed Camille.

Isabelle told Camille she wasn’t coming back before the school year started and she just laughed. She knew Isabelle would come back. She always did.

“I need a drink,” Isabelle states, taking a seat at the breakfast bar. The kitchen is plain – white and boring – and Isabelle knows it all too well and seeing it now, she knows she’s failed.

She’s gone on for so long, kept strong for so long and now, she’s back to square one. It isn’t Clary’s fault, of course not, it’s her own. And she desperately wishes she could fix it and move on.

Camille places a bottle of vodka in front of Isabelle.

“Drink.”

Isabelle drinks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so, i know it's been a month - i'm sorry!
> 
> since i last updated, i've moved to uni and i've been trying to work out how to live like a functioning adult and how to do the work and i have like so many books to read and it's insane 
> 
> i've been in my new home for literally a month and i'm sure recovering from fresher's flu but i feel a lot better now hence the update which i hope you don't hate 
> 
> also thank you to my lil baby moll for always being a perf beta!!


	9. IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: toxic relationships, manipulation, controlling behaviour

Clary is sitting opposite Jace in small Italian restaurant. He had suggested it over text for their date and Clary can’t help but love it. It’s quaint, very old-fashioned and smells of fresh, home-made pizza.

“You have to try the bruschetta,” Jace tells her, peering over his menu and breaking her train of thought. She shifts her gaze from the setting to Jace’s blue eyes staring at her.

“It’s good?” She asks, running her fingers across the hem of her pink skirt. He grins widely at her and runs a hand through his sandy-blonde hair.

“It’s the best bruschetta I’ve ever had and trust me, I’ve been to like every Italian restaurant and tried them all! They have just the right amount of balsamic and olive oil – ”

Clary is zoning out. She likes Jace, really, she thinks he’s nice. They’re just not… compatible. She knows she only agreed to go on the date because she feels weird about the whole kissing Isabelle thing. Which she’s choosing to block out – it _didn’t_ happen. Clary wouldn’t kiss a girl.

“-and the bread they use is so fresh like I’ve spoken to the owner and his son makes the bread in his bakery like right across the street and – ”

Except she did. Clary kissed Isabelle. She had wanted it with every part of her, had liked it even and – _no –_ it was a mistake and it wouldn’t happen again. Clary likes boys, she likes Jace. Still, a nagging voice in her head keeps asking, ‘if you like Jace, why aren’t you listening to him? If you don’t like girls, why did you kiss Isabelle?’

_She ignores it. She always does._

 

* * *

 

 

Isabelle is drunk.

She’s staring at the empty bottle of vodka in front of her, _well_ – _trying_ to. Her eyelids are heavy, and not just from the four layers of mascara and liquid eyeliner she’s applied. Her vision is hazy too, Camille’s kitchen floating in and out of focus, as if she’s adjusting a camera lense.

Camille’s been talking to her for a while – a constant stream of nothing, _nothing_ , _nothing_ – and Isabelle is too drunk to pretend to listen, pretend to even care or acknowledge her – but on she goes, talking as if she’s the most important person to ever have lived. Isabelle wishes she had more vodka to drink.

“You’re boring me,” Isabelle snaps – _slurs_ – as she turns to face Camille, the kitchen dancing around her blurrily as she does so. Camille is sitting at the opposite side of the breakfast table, one elbow balanced on the counter with her hand resting under her chin. Her other hand holds a gin and tonic, which sways slightly when she talks causing the alcohol to splash against the inside of the glass. It _annoys_ Isabelle. 

“Boring?” Camille quips, raises an eyebrow, removes her elbow from the table and focuses her gaze on Isabelle. “Boring,” she repeats the word, rolling it off her tongue, tasting it on her gin-soaked lips.

Isabelle stares back at her – jaw tensed, briefly acknowledging that all that separates them is an expensive marble counter and an empty bottle of imported Russian vodka – and smirks.

“Boring,” she repeats, allowing the word to tumble out of her mouth, enjoying the way it sounds – intentional and purposeful, exaggerating the two syllables as if they hold monumental importance – and smiling as she does. Her blood-red lips pulling up menacingly.

Camille just _laughs_. _Laughs_ at Isabelle’s weak attempt to belittle her or make her feel as if she is beneath her. _Laughs_ at Isabelle for even trying something that stupid on her.

“I’m not one of your _little_ girlfriends, Isabelle.” She states plainly, returning Isabelle’s smirk which drops instantaneously upon hearing Camille’s reply. “Speaking of, which one is it that hurt you this time? Who’s the girl that has you running back to me?”

All Isabelle can do is glare at Camille as she comes to terms with her failed attempt to gain the upper hand with Camille for just once, just once in her life. And she can’t do it. Can’t beat Camille at whatever game they’re constantly playing and it _grinds_ on her. She _hates_ it – hates the way that she can be knocked back with a tiny snigger or look – but she can’t help it, there’s nothing she can do. She is so helpless when it comes to Camille.

“Well,” Camille pushes and reaches for the bottle of Tanqueray that sits at the end of the counter to pour herself another drink. “I don’t have all day.”

“Of course you have all day,” Isabelle spits back acidly. “You have all week, all month, all _fucking_ year. You know why, Camille? Because your whole _fucking_ life revolves around me. You can’t get enough of Isabelle Lightwood. You love it when I’m here and when I’m not, you spend your entire time thinking about when I’m going to come back.”

“You’re _deluded_ ,” Camille says calmly, taking a sip of her drink. “You’re actually so sick in the head Isabelle. You’re _mental._ And you wonder why your parents don’t listen to you? You wonder why every person you’ve ever loved has eventually left you? It’s _you_ , Isabelle, it’s always been just _you_ \- sabotaging every good thing you’ve ever had in your life. And who sticks with you through everything? It’s me, Isabelle. It’s always been me who holds you when you cry, holds your hair back when you’re drunk and vomiting, comforts you when everybody else leaves you. This is how you repay me, treating me like this?”

“You don’t care about me,” Isabelle chokes out, feeling the tears that are beginning to well in her eyes. “You just like being in control of me.”

“Maybe,” Camille responds, running a manicured nail across the counter between them, a smirk playing on her lips. “But I’m all you have.”

She crumbles.

Isabelle leaves the next morning not knowing entirely what happened. She remembers snippets – Camille kissing away her tears, telling her everything was going to be okay, ordering her pizza to soak up the vodka, sleeping with her – but that’s all. She had slept with Camille, _slept with her_. Something she had promised never to do again and yet, she had.

Maybe Camille was right? Maybe it was always herself that sabotaged everything good in her life. It was no wonder that nobody ever stayed around. Her parents never paid any attention to her at all – preferring to give all their attention to Alec and when he came out and didn’t suit them anymore, they turned to Jace, wanting to carve him into the next Lightwood to keep the family name sacred. Then there was the string of lovers – people she fell _too hard_ for, _too fast_. And it hurt, _god_ , it hurt. Her longest romantic stint was with Meliorn and even that was riddled with its own problems. Mostly, Isabelle’s desire to cut out all emotions from the relationship and only have sex. It’s always _her_ fault.

Isabelle sniggers bitterly to herself as she opens her car and gets in. Desperately wanting to leave Camille’s behind her, she hits the gas. Did she honestly believe Clary could ever see anything in her? Stupid, bitter Isabelle Lightwood.

Isabelle lets out a sigh of relief as Camille’s house fades into the background – smaller, smaller, _gone_ – and then reaches for the packet of cigarettes on the passenger seat. She fumbles with it, trying to get one out of the packet and light it while maintaining control of the car. She does, eventually, and turns the radio on with her cigarette-free hand. Then she _drives,_ drives home to the Lightwood mansion.

_She’ll survive. She always does._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been 84 years but i got so caught up in uni work :((
> 
> anyway, it's the christmas holidays now so here is an update!!


	10. X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, i hope you all had a really nice holiday!! welcome back to hell!!

Clary is the first to notice that Isabelle stops turning up to school. _Obviously._

“Hey,” she says to Lydia over lunch one day. “Have you seen Isabelle around lately?”

Lydia sniggers slightly before she replies, pushing a lettuce leaf around her plate. “No, thank God.”

When Isabelle does turn up to school, she looks dishevelled. Her blouse isn’t tucked into her skirt but instead hangs over the tartan, her tie is messily knotted and her lips are free from their usual dark, matte lipstick. Her skin is pale gold, the shadows under her eyes dark purple, and her eyes rimmed red as if she hasn’t sleep in weeks. Clary notices she’s lost weight as well, her uniform looks too big for her and at lunch, Clary can’t help but stare as Isabelle pushes her food around the plate before just dumping it in the canteen bin and disappearing for the rest of lunch to the chapel.

She follows her a few times, to the chapel, and peers behind the door as she watches Isabelle on one of the pews, her head bowed in prayer, dark hair covering her face.

Clary isn’t entirely sure if this is all her fault but still it eats away at her, what if she is partially to blame? She wonders if Isabelle ever found out about her date with Jace - her shoddy attempt to conceal everything she feels about Isabelle, to escape the fact that she had kissed her at Magnus Bane’s party.

As quickly as Isabelle descends into a sleep-deprived mess, she returns to her normal self. In the space of two weeks, she starts attending school again, full-time, complete with blood-red lips and golden-brown skin. Clary is relieved at Isabelle’s return to health, she watches from a distance as she begins to eat again and answer in French class. Isabelle still goes to the chapel during lunch however, and Clary always excuses herself from Lydia, Maureen and the others to follow her there.

She’s peering behind the door, gazing into the church which is empty save from Isabelle sitting in the front pew, head bowed in prayer. She coughs suddenly, startling Clary who nearly falls face-first into the room.

“I know you’re there, Clary,” Isabelle’s voice echoes against the high-ceiling of the chapel and Clary responds by dropping her book bag loudly at the doorway. “Well, are you going to continue staring or come in?”

She picks up her book bag as quietly as she can manage, and enters the chapel, closing the door quietly behind her. Isabelle doesn’t look up once as Clary makes her way to the front pew, footsteps echoing in the looming silence.

“I’m sorry for prying,” Clary tells her sincerely as she sits on the same pew as Isabelle, leaving at least a metre of space between them. She can’t bear to be too close to her, as if being too near to Isabelle would cause her to burn from the inside out. Clary thinks this is desire or, at least, some form of it. “But you must understand, I was worried for you.”

Isabelle laughs at that – not loud or humorous but soft, bitter, _scalding_ – and raises her head to look at the statue of the virgin Mary that stands in front of both her and Clary.

“Clary Fairchild," she whispers, the bitter amusement still playing on her tongue. “ _Worried_ about me.” She doesn’t remove her eyes from in front of her, refusing to look at Clary. She knows that if she does, she will break. Isabelle is tired of being broken. She is tired of her family treating her like shit and she is tired of Clary and her confusing emotions.

“Of course I was,” Clary insists, analysing Isabelle’s side profile for any glimpse of emotion. Despite the colour returning to her face, Clary can still see the dark shadows under her eyes despite Isabelle’s obvious attempt to cover it with concealer and she can see beyond the red lipstick to her bitten lips. “You stopped turning up at school, Isabelle. Your uniform was messy for the first time in your life and you looked like all the colour had drained out of you. Did you expect me to just ignore that?”

“Wow,” Isabelle responds sarcastically. “You really know how to keep tabs on the people you mess about.”

Clary swallows loudly, and grips onto the underside of the pew tightly.

“Look – ” Clary chokes out but falters as Isabelle eventually turns to face her and she is hit with everything she knows she wants but can’t have. She looks bored, her eyes are dead and void of any emotion and her lips are pursed.

“No, Clary, you look,” she starts calmly. “I don’t even mind that you kissed me and ran off – you were confused, _trust me,_ _I get it_ – and I don’t even mind you being hot and cold when you were around me, I know this isn’t easy. But leaving me that vulnerable, _that_ sure it could work and then, I find out the very next morning that you had agreed to go on a date with Jace? What am I meant to think, Clary, what am I meant to feel? Did you even think about me and how your actions might, maybe – _I don’t know_ – mess me up a bit?”

“ _Izzy_ ,” Clary tries, her own actions catching up with her and the realisation of how shit she’s been hitting her fully.

“You don’t get to call me that,” Isabelle spits back, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a midnight-purple bruise on the side of her neck.

Clary doesn’t respond to Isabelle, instead choosing to noticeably stare at Isabelle’s neck which sports a massive hickey. She notices Clary’s staring eventually and positions the hair to cover it again before turning back to the virgin Mary.

“Anyway, shouldn’t you be running back to Lydia by now to tell her – ”

“Who?” Clary demands, feeling heat rising in her cheeks. Isabelle just ignores her, her expression not revealing anything as she stares directly in front of her.  “Who gave you that?” Clary asks again, her voice breaking slightly.

“You don’t get to ask me that, Clary,” Isabelle tells her. “In fact, you can stay away from me entirely – I’ve had enough of you treating me like a toy. You don’t get to pick and choose me as you wish.”

Clary blinks in disbelief, her cheeks almost as red as the tartan of her skirt. Isabelle has never spoken to her like this before. She musters up what confidence she has left and looks directly at Isabelle.

“Isabelle,” she pushes. “I asked you a question.”

Isabelle laughs aloud, almost in disbelief and turns to face Clary once more, a smug expression setting into her sharp features.

“I don’t owe you anything, Fairchild,” Isabelle says, exaggerating every word. “And you’re really starting to _grind_ on me. So, do me a favour, and _fuck off_ before I write you up a detention for being out of bounds at lunch.”

Isabelle can’t help but smirk in victory as Clary’s face turns from embarrassment to contempt and she snatches up her book bag and gets up from the pew to stand directly in front of Isabelle who doesn’t even bother looking up at her.

“There’s a special place in hell reserved for you, Isabelle Lightwood,” Clary spits.

“I’m betting on it,” Isabelle responds. “I’m hoping I get a spot in the part of hell where they put girls who kiss girls – oh! You’ll have a spot there too. How fun!”

Isabelle bows her head in prayer again, laughing under her breath at the sound of Clary exiting the chapel, stomping her brogues dramatically and huffing loudly.

 


	11. XI

Camille is tracing a line of kisses from Isabelle’s jaw down to her neck, to her exposed collarbone.

They’re on the first floor of St Magdalene’s – a floor of lavishly decorated boarding rooms which used to be occupied by the previous generation of Magdalene girls. They’re still maintained to a certain extent but the cracks are clear – the floral wallpaper peels in the corners where the walls meet the roof, the paint on the window frames are beginning to crack and the beds squeak from years of use. Not that it matters, nobody can hear anything that happens on the first floor. Which, in the past, has made it a great location for various drug deals and sexually promiscuous acts. No one could ever mistake Magdalene girls as being boring.

Isabelle’s head is tilted back, her white blouse loose and her tie hangs untied around her neck. She realises that this feels wrong – realises that something that usually makes her feel so good, feels so incredible wrong. When Camille kisses her, it isn’t pleasurable – her lips don’t taste candy-sweet or place secrets on Isabelle’s skin – they taste like dread. Every kiss is a reminder of Isabelle’s failure, a reminder of her inability to survive on her own. The trail of kisses spell a warning against her skin – _you’re mine and you can’t escape_. Isabelle’s eyes flicker open to the sight of the off-white roof where a chandelier hangs.

“Camille,” she breathes, her voice hoarse and slightly breathless. “We need to stop.”

 Camille mumbles slightly, ignoring Isabelle’s request and running her teeth along the skin of Isabelle’s collarbone.

“Camille,” she repeats, this time sterner. “I hear footsteps.”

Camille laughs lightly.

“You’re imagining it,” she mumbles against Isabelle’s skin. “No one ever comes up here anymore.”

Isabelle wishes Camille is right. She isn’t. The door swings open.

 

* * *

 

Clary is making her through the canteen, dodging and avoiding the masses of people in the small room, holding onto her tray tightly not to drop it. Magdalene never has good vegetarian options, and she’ll be damned if she lets her cucumber sushi hit the floor. As she approaches closer to her table, she realises the girls are a buzz with gossip. Lydia, as usual, is the one talking and the others are hanging onto her every word. They barely notice as Clary places her tray on the table and takes her usual seat between Lydia and Maureen.

“Hello,” Clary greets, piercing a plastic straw into her tropical capri sun.

“Oh, finally,” Lydia mutters, a playful smile playing on her lips. Clary smiles back, rolling her eyes and shaking her head slightly.

“I know right,” she says innocently. “They haven’t had cucumber sushi in almost two weeks, I’ve been living on salads and vegetable broth.” Lydia’s expression turns to confused as she looks Clary up in down in a way that makes her feel stupid for even breathing.

“Um, yeah, cool,” she waves her hand dismissively and says disinterestedly. “Anyway, you’ll never guess what I saw first period.”

“Hit me,” Clary says, breaking apart her disposable chop sticks and reaching for a piece of sushi. She has no time for Lydia and her insipid gossip, however she has all the time in the world for cucumber sushi.

“Well, like I said, it was first period and I was on the first floor – you know, the old boarding rooms – performing the monthly checks to see if everything was in order,” Clary nods half-heartedly, a piece of sushi in each cheek, causing her to look like a hamster. “Clary, you really must stop doing that – you eat like a barbarian. Anyway, I hear voices from one of the rooms which, _like_ , obviously freaks me out because, _like_ , no one is meant to be up there. So, I build up the courage and I walk over and open the door and you’ll never guess what I see!” She looks at Clary expectantly, waiting for her to chip in and act surprised. She swallows her sushi loudly and tries to look interested. She’s almost mastered it, having hung out with Lydia’s group for almost two months now.

“Oh my god,” she says. “What did you see?” Lydia beams at the question and flicks her hair behind her shoulder.

“Well, Clary,” she tells her, and the other girls are on the edge of their seats despite having already heard the story before Clary arrived. “I saw two girls and they weren’t just talking.” This piques Clary’s interest for some unknown reason and she raises an eyebrow.

“Do you know who?” Clary asks, and Lydia smiles again but this time it’s crueller.

“You bet your ass I know who it was,” Lydia says and shifts her gaze to a table near the window. Clary follows her gaze to the table to see it occupied by Isabelle, who sports the same purple mark on her neck from the last time Clary saw her.

“That’s not surprising,” Clary forces herself to say, even though the words and tone she uses to say it feel wrong in her mouth. She feels as if she needs to hide something from Lydia and this is the way she must act, the way she must speak to be accepted in the group who are clearly bias against Isabelle. Plus, her last encounter with the Lightwood girl has left her feeling slightly bitter towards her. And even though she won’t admit it, part of her hates the idea of Isabelle being with someone else.

“Who with?” Clary asks Lydia, holding on to her chopsticks so tightly she fears they might snap. Clary isn’t far off snapping either, she realises.

“Camille Belcourt,” Maureen chips in. Clary flinches at the familiar name and turns to face Maureen who looks extremely pretty today, her gorgeous curly hair styled in two loose space buns and her lips a gorgeous peach colour.

“Ah, I know her,” she tells Maureen, who over the course of the last few weeks had been beginning to warm to Clary due to them playing doubles together. “She’s in my art class.”

“She’s quite scary,” Heather says, her blonde braid bouncing behind her as she giddily adds to the conversation.

“She is,” Lydia agrees, “She always looks like she hasn’t slept in a few weeks.” The other girls all join in and soon enough the conversation turns into an analysis of Camille. Clary doesn’t join in, instead choosing to bitterly eat her sushi and imagine throwing tennis balls at Camille on a continuous loop for the rest of the lunch break.

 

* * *

 

Clary isn’t an aggressive person but at after school tennis practice, she finds herself hitting the tennis balls a bit harder than she needs to.

“Wow Clary,” Maureen laughs. “Pent up anger?”

They’re playing against each other and while Clary is improving, Maureen can still beat her without trying. So, Clary just looks crazy, pelting balls across the net and out of court.

“You don’t know the half,” she grins at Maureen and throws another ball in the air to serve. In a swift backhanded movement from Maureen, it comes flying back to Clary who misses it completely.

“Wanna talk about it?” Maureen asks, blowing a strand of hair that’s fallen loose out of her face.

Clary considers this for a moment. She’s had no one to talk to ever since her and Isabelle fell out and bottling up her emotions would only end up badly.

“Sure,” Clary answers. “If that’s okay with you?”

Maureen just smiles in return, before throwing a tennis ball in the air and moving to serve. All Clary has time to do is duck.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t have a problem with it,” Maureen informs Clary later over milkshakes. They’re in a cute little diner near the tennis courts. It’s furnished completely in pastel pink and sea-foam green and it feels like something out of one of the indie movies Clary constantly tries to place herself in. “It’s mostly Lydia, I just sort of go along with it.”

“Lydia seems to have some pretty strong feelings about it,” Clary responds, taking a sip of her vanilla milkshake through a candy pink striped straw.

“I think part of it is her not really being the most understanding person, you know? When I first met Lydia, I _hated_ her. I couldn’t understand how anyone could be so absolutely wrapped up in themselves – it was like she was trapped in some impenetrable cotton candy film of self absorption.” Maureen says and pauses for a moment, seemingly reflecting on something. “But, when you get to know her, you understand it’s all just to mask everything that’s wrong in her life. She never sees her parents, _like_ , ever and she had a serious eating disorder which never really left her completely. I keep having to remind her that she can’t just have diet coke for lunch every day, I want her to healthy.”

“Wow,” Clary gasps quietly, shaking her head slightly in disbelief. “I didn’t even know.”

“I mean, none of this stuff entitles her to be so mean to Isabelle but I think she’s just insecure. Like, remember when she told you that Isabelle had kissed her at her party? That night, I was standing on the balcony and they were in the garden below. It was sort of dark, but there were candles in the garden and I could’ve sworn it was Lydia who kissed Isabelle.”

“You know,” Clary says, raising an arched brow. “Isabelle told me that too.”

“Like I said,” Maureen says, taking a sip from her milkshake. “I think she’s just insecure.”

“What should we do? Should we say something?” Clary asks, nervously picking the nail polish from her nails.

“No,” Maureen says sternly. “It’s not our business to question her about it. I think she just needs an example or something, _I don’t know_. It’s a time thing. It’s a religion thing.”

“I’m really starting to think the Catholic church has gotten some things wrong,” Clary says softly, almost as if the words are traitorous leaving her mouth, as if God might hear.

“Yeah, me too,” Maureen says quietly. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took slightly over a week!! i got quite ill and obsessed with skam oops sorry!!
> 
> anyway, i think it's important that i talk a little about homosexuality in the catholic religion/church like at the end of this chapter, there's mentions of clary and maureen slightly questioning their faith and while the Catholic Church has a mostly negative view towards gay marriage/rights - there are still catholics who support gay marriage/rights
> 
> it has never been my intention to completely ignore this side of the church that supports gay marriage/rights - this fanfic was never gonna be one that was easy to write and it's very nature means i have to focus on all aspects of religion in terms of homosexuality
> 
> i'm not in any way trying to imply that you have to lose your faith to support gay marriage/rights, as the story goes on, it'll focus on people losing their faith but also people changing their ideas and keeping their faith at the same time


	12. XII

It’s weird, and almost indescribable, but for the first time in Clary’s life, she feels comfortable. Weirdly so. Like everything before this moment was completed with only four fifths of herself. It’s as if there’s been a light film over Clary’s eyes and for the first time, she can see clearly - she knows what she _wants_. Truly and completely.

She’s sitting court-side, half-heartedly watching Lydia and Cassandra battle it out on the tennis field when she reaches for her phone and scrolls through her contacts to find Jace. They had talked slightly after their date, but Jace wasn’t an idiot and had clearly caught on that Clary wasn’t interested so their texts had died down a few weeks ago.

She doesn’t exactly know what she wants to type - she doesn’t have an idea or a plan in her head but she knows she must talk to him. She knows he’ll understand. Despite Clary not being romantically attracted to Jace, she likes him. She admires him, trusts him. She knows his past - knows so much has happened to him that would turn others cruel, and yet, Jace preserves and remains one of the kindest people Clary has ever met.

Maureen is lounging beside her, fully concentrated on the game and eyes intensely concentrated on the tennis ball which is currently hurtling towards Lydia. Despite this, she slightly shields her phone anyway as she types out the message.

 

**Clary** (16:58) _Jace_

 

**Clary** (16:58) _hi and sorry this is really random_

 

**Clary** (15:03) _i just know i can trust you and i haven’t been entirely fair to you… i agreed to go on a date with you even though i knew i didn’t like you that way, not even you individually, just boys, really, and honestly i can’t believe i wrote that but i’m not deleting it now it’s done_

 

**Clary** (15:04) _anyway, i just wanted to let you know that i’m really sorry for hiding behind you, it wasn’t fair on you honestly it was so shitty of me and i understand if you don’t respond i just thought you should know, it seems fair… plus, i get on with you, i want to be your friend. i just needed to let you know_

 

By the time the four texts are sent, Clary’s hands are shaking violently as she attempts to grip onto her phone successfully. It is at this point; she realises how extremely lucky she is that Maureen is so engrossed in the tennis game unfolding before them.

“I think I’m going to head home now, Maureen,” Clary says, forcing her voice to sound as normal as she can make it.

 “Yeah,” Maureen mumbles and raises her hand in a weak goodbye, eyes never leaving the court. “Cool.”

In any other circumstance, Clary would have laughed and rolled her eyes at Maureen’s disinterest but somehow, as she goes to leave, she can’t seem to force her body to do anything but walk to the school carpark. When Clary reaches her car, her phone vibrates in her hand, startling her and causing her to almost drop it onto the tarmac below.

“Fuck,” she mutters as the realisation that it’s probably Jace replying dawns on her completely. She refuses to look at her phone until she’s sitting down in the driver’s seat, one hand wrapped around the wheel so tightly that her fingers have turned a ghostly shade of white. Using her other hand, Clary grabs a hold of her phone and reads Jace’s reply.

 

**Jace** (15:06) _clary i didn’t even know?? you shouldn’t be apologising at all! it’s not a big deal though, it’s totally fine… we could grab coffee soon if you want and chat about it?? if you need someone to talk to_

 

The relief that hits Clary feels like a high.

She quickly responds to Jace’s text and they arrange to meet up at a local café on the beachfront in under an hour. Clary feels practically giddy as she drives towards the beach – her breath heavy and fingers shaking – and she can’t help but feel like a huge weight has been lifted off her shoulders.

Clary arrives early to the café – a small, independent shop completely decorated in an ocean theme – and orders a vanilla latte. She chooses a table by the window which has a view of the boulevard and the beach below. The café is cute, if slightly garish with its bright blue walls decorated with life rings and strings of seashells hanging from the roof. What it lacks in decoration, it makes up for in baked goods and coffee. Clary had spent a lot of time here when she first moved to California, she feels comfortable here.

Clary is half-way through her coffee when Jace arrives, triggering the bell that hangs above the shop door. He catches Clary’s eye and smiles before making his way over to the table she’s sat at.

“Hey,” Clary says, hands wrapped tightly around the coffee cup in front of her. “How’s it going?”

“Everything’s great with me, Clary,” he says, smiling and taking a seat at the table. “It’s you I’m worried about though.”

“Yeah,” Clary mutters, looking down at the table. “I know it was a bit random and I probably shouldn’t have thrown that at you so suddenly but it just felt right to tell you, you know?”

“If anything, it was a compliment how much you trust me,” Jace says smiling, causing Clary to look up. “And, like I said, I’m always here if you need to talk.”

“I really appreciate that, Jace,” Clary responds.

“Obviously, I don’t like understand everything, considering I’m, well, me,” Jace laughs and gestures towards himself causing Clary to laugh too. “But my sister, Isabelle – you’re friends with her right? She recently came out and I’m sure she’d talk about it with you if I asked.”

Clary laughs again, shifting her view to the beach outside. “That’s kind of the problem,” she smiles half-heartedly.

“You’re telling me, while we went on a date, you had a thing for my sister?” Jace laughs and places a hand on his heart in mock offence. “Clary, I’m heart-broken.” Clary laughs and hits him softly on the arm.

“Hey, stop that,” Clary laughs and covers her face to hide the fact that her cheeks are turning bright red.

“Now it makes sense why Isabelle spent so much time talking about how cute her new friend was,” Jace says, grin still etched onto his face. “Well, ultimately, it’s up to you if you want to talk to her about your feelings but I’ve got your back Fairchild and I always will.”

Those words stay with Clary for the rest of the day. Even as she thanks Jace and says goodbye to him, even when she drives home and especially when she’s trying to focus on her homework. It’s nice having someone who cares. To be alone, Clary thinks, is the hardest thing of all. But she doesn’t feel alone anymore.

She’s just putting the finishing touches on her French grammar homework when it dawns on Clary that she hasn’t told the most important people of all. Simon and Luke. She quickly writes a text to Simon, not even worrying whether or not he’ll accept it. Clary could murder someone and Simon would hide the body. He was her closest friend and nothing would change that.

That left Luke.

He’s sitting at the breakfast bar when Clary enters the open plan living room and kitchen. His head is bowed over the table as he glances from case file to case file. Since leaving New York, he’s been totally occupied by his bookstore but sometimes he’ll be consulted to look things over from the department. In losing Luke, the New York police department had lost one of their greatest detectives.

“We never got that pizza,” Clary says as she approaches him. He startles and turns around to face her. He laughs upon seeing her fake pout.

“Well,” Luke says, hastily closing a case file on the table behind him. “We’ll have to amend that. What do you want?”

“All the carbs in the world,” Clary laughs and takes a seat at the breakfast table. “Every single one.”

Luke is halfway through his own pizza when he notices that Clary has barely touched hers.

“Something up, Clary?” He asks, setting a half-eaten slice of pepperoni pizza down onto his plate.

Clary is about to respond when her phone vibrates suddenly, startling her. _Simon_. She glances at the screen quickly to see the Simon’s positive response and it’s all the encouragement she needs. She puts her phone down on the table.

“Luke,” she says and begins to twist the cross between her fingers. “I’m gay.”

Luke is silent for a minute and opens his mouth to respond when the sound of the phone ringing begins to echo through the house. He puts his finger up to indicate one minute and then he disappears to pick up the phone.

All Clary can hear for a few moments is hushed whispers before Luke returns to the kitchen, his face unreadable.

“Clary,” Luke begins, voice shaking slightly. “They’ve found Jocelyn.”

Clary can’t breathe. The cross slips from between her fingers and hits her chest.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: clarystea
> 
> (you can send me prompts, anon hate, and cute cats - honestly go wild)
> 
> pinterest board for this fic: https://www.pinterest.com/cruickshankmill/your-halos-full-of-fire/


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